


Bitter Honey

by hybridshade (shimyaku)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Butt Plugs, Dubious Consent, Family Secrets, Forced Bonding, Forced Marriage, Historical Inaccuracy, Knifeplay, M/M, Magic, Marking, Non Consensual, Object Insertion, Poison, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Scarification, Switching, Tattoos, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimyaku/pseuds/hybridshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean, forced into a ritualised bonding ceremony by their opposing clans, find that there is an alternate force at work trying to stop their marriage – and their lives – in it's tracks. Of course, no one anticipated the strength of the bond forged between them, nor Dean’s secret learnings in magic and Sam’s hidden abilities. So despite Sam's escalating illness and Dean's waning optimism, the two develop their own agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter Honey

**Title:** Bitter Honey  
 **Fandom:** Supernatural  
 **Pairing:** Sam/Dean, brief mention of past Castiel/Dean, brief OMCs/Sam  
 **Rating:** nc17  
 **Warnings:** historical-type AU, magic and some spirituality, forced marriage, non-con, dub-con, ritualised sex, bloodplay/knifeplay, scarification, marking, painful sex, buttplugs, object insertion, anal, switching, attempted murder, violence  
 **Word count:** ~24k  
 **Summary:** Sam and Dean, forced into a ritualised bonding ceremony by their opposing clans, find that there is an alternate force at work trying to stop their marriage – and their lives – in it's tracks. Of course, no one anticipated the strength of the bond forged between them, nor Dean’s secret learnings in magic and Sam’s hidden abilities. So despite Sam's escalating illness and Dean's waning optimism, the two develop their own agenda.  
 **A/N:** Written for the [kink-bigbang](http://kink-bigbang.livejournal.com). And oh, Ginny, my friend, what would I do without you, you give me strength to carry on~ *fist pumps*

Also, many thanks to my awesome artist [Antares04a](http://antares04a.livejournal.com), please check out her art either [on her LJ](http://antares04a.livejournal.com/66625.html%20) or [at the comm](http://kink-bigbang.livejournal.com/94241.html) \o/

 

Sam found himself woken from his sleep, though he could find no immediate reason why. The book he had been reading to pass the time still lay open on his chest, and the candle at his bedside had burned far enough into the wax that it had snuffed itself out. The gibbous moon shone through the ceiling-high windows of his ‘prison’, casting enough light that he could navigate the room without any trouble, thus he hefted himself out of bed to replace the book on the shelf, and shuffled barefooted over to the windows. 

He leaned against the smooth glass, finding it cooled by the night air, and pressed the side of his face along the thick pane; the feeling was heavenly against the feverish heat of his skin. Both his attendants had blamed the ailment on their weeks of slow travel, passing through unfamiliar villages and being in contact with unfamiliar people – not that Sam could say he had experienced much of either, since his father had magically secured him within his carriage for the majority of the journey. The charm hadn’t prevented others from entering though, as he had discovered one night when several townsmen had broken in, clearly expecting to find a fair young maiden whose pure body they could taint. They had attempted to assault Sam regardless, but upon seeking to touch his bared genitals, their hands had been struck with yet another of his father’s malicious enchantments, the skin of their fingers immediately blistering as though they had been dunked in boiled water. 

Even long after the men had run off, Sam hadn’t been able to conjure the effort to right his torn and dishevelled clothes, nor tidy the ravaged state of his carriage, he had merely lain there and stared absently at the healing burns on his own fingers. Even the most natural of things – like touching his own body – had been denied him during the past months, and Sam had to wonder if his brute of a father quietly enjoyed taking his known life from him, piece by piece. He had fought it in the beginning, fought it with all the force of his will, but his father simply had too high a standing within their clan, no one was game enough to refuse him – if he ordered that Sam be denied food or clothing or bathing water or books or contact with his friends, then it was done.

Now he was on the other side of the known world, still locked away, and starved for everything but his own company. His attendants never spoke but to bark orders at him, his meals were regulated, and he was apparently located far enough away in the castle that he never heard or saw another soul – they may as well have put him in the dungeons, no doubt a castle belonging to the infamous Borderland’s tyrant Winchester would have substantial ones. At least there he might come across someone to talk to.

Heaving a sigh, Sam slumped against the glass window and stared longingly out into the distance. There were mountains in this part of the world; a great seam of them spanned the easternmost border, barricading their realm from whatever lay beyond. Sam was as far from his home in the West as he had ever been, but even back there they were fenced in on one side by a vast forest which no man had ever traversed and lived to tell the tale. And so the mountains that he continued to gaze at provided as much mystery and intrigue as the forest back home – a soldier’s will was still ingrained in him, so although he had grown up with combat and strategy for companions despite the passivity of his heart, such a mystery only tempted him more keenly with the challenge of discovery.

His roused thoughts were interrupted however, by a rhythmical humming that seemed to emanate from his left. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the sound which had woken him only moments prior, and he hurriedly stepped toward the adjacent wall, bypassing the regular windows and heading instead to the stained-glass door that lead out onto the balcony. He’d already tried to open it when he’d first been placed there, but clearly precautions had been taken in advance, as he had barely gotten within a foot of it when his body had been struck with an unseen electrical force. Invisible fingers had plucked at his limbs and forced him to his knees in pain, the current increasing the longer he remained in close quarters to the door. Thankfully he’d been able to roll his body further away from the door before his mind clouded over, and within a moment the force had snapped back like a rubber band, leaving him gasping for breath.

Thus he made doubly sure not to drift within an arm’s length of the charmed door, instead moving to the window at its side, approaching cautiously – just to be sure – and indeed he could sense the prickling of the magic against his flesh now that he was aware of its presence, but he was certain to remain out of its effective reach. Upon peering through the window pane he was met with the sight of a dark figure, hidden from the light of the moon, muttered phrases falling from his mouth, resonating through the night air. And though the words were muffled by the stone wall and thick glass between them, Sam knew an incantation when he heard one.

The man – for surely someone of such a tall, broad size would be a man – had his hands raised up by his shoulders as he chanted the words, but they dropped back by his side once he’d finished and Sam could feel the magic dissipate into the air almost instantly. Sam backed even further away from the door as it suddenly opened inward, revealing a handsome man nearly as tall as Sam himself. He was trim but well-muscled, his dirty-blonde hair was cut short and he was dressed in simple but finely made clothes – this did not look like any sort of thief or ill-meaning intruder that Sam had seen before.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, thinking fast about what he could use for a weapon should he require it.

“Shh, keep your voice down,” the man hushed, his voice deep and calming, yet commanding at the same time.

“Not until you state your name and purpose.”

The man stepped further into the room until he was illuminated by the moonlight, his face and hands visible. “I’m Dearehin.”

Sam frowned. “Yes, and? Why should I not call for my attendants to escort you out of here?” While it was doubtful Sam would be seen as innocent even if his attendants did come, this Dearehin person didn’t know that, did he?

“You’re Salmaine, are you not?”

“Of course, but-”

“Then how is it that you do not recognise my name?”

“Why _should_ I recognise your name?”

“Well,” Dearehin started, his mouth twisting with irritation, “We are to be married in three days’ time, I should have thought you would at least know my name.”

Sam blinked in shock, and for a moment the world appeared to skew around him. He had been warned against trying to escape – though he hadn’t a clue how he was meant to get past the charmed doors – and he had been warned against attempting to make contact with anyone other than his parents or the attendants taking care of his meals and other necessities, to the point where his father had threatened to magically silence him. Now he was faced with a magically-adept intruder who claimed to be the one he was to marry, but should anybody discover them together there was no way they would believe Sam had nothing to do with it, and while his father probably wouldn’t kill him outright, the fear of his punishment made Sam’s knees weak.

“Whoa, hey, what’s the matter with you, man?”

Ignoring the other man’s concern, Sam seated himself down on the edge of his bed, attempting to stave off the dizziness of his whirling thoughts. The situation was… uncomfortable, and he wished his apparent future husband would make it easier on them both and simply leave already, yet it wasn’t hard to recognise the stubbornness in him and Sam decided they would just have to make this visit a quick one.

“Well, now we have met,” he said, “I am Salmaine and you are Dearehin, what else is there to say? You should save us both from trouble and leave already.”

The other man chuckled suddenly and took it upon himself to join Sam on the bed. This close Sam was able to see the clear, pale skin of his face, the full flesh of his lips and the mesmerising green of his eyes. It wasn’t often that he was allowed to greet new people so informally, so to say he was fascinated despite his fears didn’t quite cover it.

“To start with, you should call me Dean – I hate my name so all my friends call me that. Do your friends call you something else?”

He hesitated for a moment. Salmaine was fairly standard over in the West, but there were a couple of people who called him something else – his brother for one, and the small few people he dared name his friends. “Sam, I guess… yes, Sam is fine.”

“Sam it is, then.”

Dean considered him for a long time – not speaking, merely looking him over, from top-to-toe and then centring in on his face. Something in his eyes made Sam squirm beneath the intense scrutiny, made him feel as though he were being assessed – judged. He wondered if Dean approved of what he saw – Sam was only a replacement after all, was reminded of it every day, and no doubt the other man knew it too. Originally the marriage was to have been between Dean and his cousin – his younger, more lightly framed, more femininely formed cousin. According to every foul rumour he’d ever heard about the people of the Eastern Borderlands, small, submissive and ripe for the picking was exactly their preferred palate. Irrespective of his naivety, Sam was precisely the opposite. He hoped that wouldn’t work against him.

After a long few moments Dean sat back, seemingly finished with his evaluation.

“So, you honestly knew nothing of me before you came here?” Not waiting for a response, Dean went on. “Did you know you were coming to the East? That it was to be for your marriage? That you were marrying a man?”

“I knew that, at least,” Sam muttered derisively, “And anyway, who comes to this side of the country to marry a woman?”

Dean snorted. “So you know something of us then?”

“Of a sort. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from servants and other members of my family.” Sam said no more on the subject, the last thing he wanted in this situation was for the other man to know his fears. “Perhaps you know I wasn’t originally the one you were supposed to marry?”

“I know, yes.”

“My cousin Adam…” Licking his lips, Sam considered how much it was safe to tell, but decided that since Adam was completely out of the picture, it wouldn’t matter either way. “They found him in bed with two men. My father is considered the authoritarian of our clan, and while I can only imagine what he did or said, Adam tried to kill himself only a day later. Local gossip still names him the ‘disgraced prince’.”

Dean blinked, catching on quickly to what Sam wasn’t saying. “He did it on purpose?”

“I have a mind…”

“In some ways I can’t say I blame him - society here is riddled with injustice and inequality, and marrying into an upper-class family is as good as a death wish, for some. No doubt you’ve heard some fantastically horrid tales about how we run things over here. I should warn you that a lot of it is probably true - the slavery, the tattooing, the poisons and hexes, and rapes and murders in the streets...”

Sam’s face paled.

Dean merely frowned. "You really know nothing of this, do you?”

“I never had reason to,” Sam confessed, suddenly glad that he hadn’t tried harder to get the other man to leave, “And then after I was offered in Adam’s place I was locked away like a common prisoner. I’ve barely been outside for the past six moons and I’ve spoken to none but my parents and an attendant or two. I guess my parents thought I might do something as drastic as my cousin, but clearly I’m not as aware of Borderland practices as he was, otherwise maybe I would have tried.”

“That will need to be rectified if you’re to survive around here – I’ll try and get you some reading material so you can see how best to conduct yourself. You’ll be protected until the time of our consummation, when the contracts of trade and ownership will be signed, but after that you become all but expendable. I like to believe that I think a little differently than most men in this city, and I will do my best to guard you, but you must know that you wouldn’t be the first noble’s spouse to try and escape… if you were to take that path, I mean.”

Stunned into silence, Sam had no words to offer in response. Once he’d been told of the marriage many months ago, he’d expected and mentally prepared himself for the fact that he would live a life of misery, but to _such_ an extent...

“Dean... where _are_ all the women around here? I know they’re generally not treated well but I’ve seen none whatsoever-”

“To say they’re ‘not treated well’ is to say a mountain is rather big,” Dean said, his words coloured with derision, “Most of them are either in the pleasure houses or are enslaved by their husbands and fathers and brothers, and often traded between households. Over the years the female populace has reduced considerably, since most women when they bear a female infant either kill them or try to smuggle them into the South. Truthfully, I would help them do so if I weren’t such a noticeable figure. Not to mention my father would probably put my head on a pike.”

“Actually, since you brought it up,” Sam chanced, hoping desperately that he hadn’t been reading Dean wrong or that the other man hadn’t been trying to deceive him, “You seem quite against all of this – the things that go on around you, that is…”

“I…” Dean shifted awkwardly. “You must not repeat my words, but… I hate the games of power and dominance men have to play around here. It disgusts me, and the men disgust me, and my own part in it disgusts me.”

“I would have thought that growing up in such a place would make you accustomed to it.”

Looking down into his lap where his hands were clasped tightly together, Dean gave a saddened smile. “I had a good teacher, who taught me right from wrong. His name was Castiel. He was my lover and confidant all through my teenage years. And he was from the North.”

Sam immediately perked up with interest. “Truly? He was from the North?”

“Yes, truly,” Dean reaffirmed.

“I’ve never met a Northerner before. When I was small I used to wonder if they were even real – the stories I heard were always so fantastic, I could scarcely believe that people like that existed.”

Shaking his head with amusement, Dean went on. “It’s possible you have met one and just never known. While they don’t leave the Northlands often, when they do they usually assume the identity of someone from the South or Central Territory. I never knew Castiel was from the North until I’d already known him several years, and I was the only one he ever told.”

“Are they really as skilful in magic as the stories say?”

“They really are. Their culture embraces the Spirits and their powers much more than ours do. Castiel had the most amazing abilities, and though he was employed only to teach me mathematics and science and history and such things, he taught me magics in secret, taught me things that I thought only shaman and sorcerers were able to know. It’s how I was able to dismantle the enchantment on your door without even knowing what the right spell was.”

“Wait, employed?” Sam stopped short. “So he assumed the guise of a tutor? Why would he do that?”

Dean fiddled with his thumbs a moment and began to look marginally uncomfortable. “Apparently there are Northerners who have predictive visions. One of Castiel’s clan had a vision about me many years ago, and charged Castiel with the task that he must travel here and impart to me as much knowledge of magic as I could comprehend…”

The tale was left hanging and Sam could tell that there was something significant that Dean was holding back, but though he wanted to know, he was reluctant to push the other man too far so soon after their first meeting. They’d managed to establish a loose balance of give and take within a short amount of time, and Sam was reluctant to upset it; however that wasn’t going to prevent him from asking questions altogether.

“What happened to him – to Castiel?”

A deep sigh flowed from the other man’s lips. “You may know that certain spells are forbidden in the East – many of them are related to physical pleasure. Castiel was teaching me a stimulation charm one day and my father walked in on us, and banished him on the spot. Father was… well, I’d never seen him that angry before. I don’t know whether he was angered more about my knowing such spells or if he thought I would become more powerful than him, or if maybe he’d had an inkling all along that Castiel wasn’t who he said he was and seeing him produce such magic convinced him. But… Castiel. He could easily have manipulated my father’s memory if he’d wanted to, but he said that his task was complete anyway and so he left to cross over the mountains to the East – ‘to find the unknown’ he said.”

“Oh.” Sam deflated.

“I’m not angry with him, not any more. I couldn’t be. Not when I remember everything he taught me – the strength and knowledge I’ve gained about magic and the world in general, the things I know now about how to influence a body, how to control it, make it sing and make it burn and how to simultaneously drown a person in both pleasure and pain…”

Sam sat back, noticing the intense manner with which Dean was staring at legs. “I’ve upset you.”

“What?” Dean glanced up in earnest surprise.

Sam looked down to where the other man’s hands had a stranglehold on each other. “If you hold yourself like that any longer your fingers will drop off.”

Prying his hands apart, Dean moved them towards his knees and gripped onto his thighs instead. He swallowed and took a breath as if about to spill a great secret. “If I’m to be honest, I’m trying desperately not to touch you – all that talk of Castiel has got me all… And for all that I’ve been taught well, I’m still the son of a Great Lord and being able to have what I want when I want is simply my being a product of my upbringing. Sam, I don’t suppose-”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Right, sorry.”

“I-” Sam had to stop himself from rescinding his response. The other man looked as though he were a hair’s breadth away from breaking into a frenzy, and Spirits help him but he felt sorry for the look in Dean’s eyes. “You can put your hand on me... if you want, I mean. Perhaps... on my leg? Or...”

Dean’s breath hitched, and it was with careful gentleness that he laid his hand over the width of Sam’s thigh, his fingers digging into the silk robe-covered flesh only slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Dean apologised, “I’ve been secretly trying to observe a month’s celibacy prior to our bonding, like the people of the North do – that was something Castiel taught me about. And being so used to just... acting out my desires whenever I please, trying to withhold them is nigh on torture.”

“I… I see.”

“Do you… think you could ever grow to love me one day?”

The question was out of the blue and had Sam grasping for a response yet again.

“I always wondered,” Dean went on, “What it would be like to be in a mutually loving partnership. Castiel told me about a woman he once loved named Annaya. He said it was one of the most rewarding, yet heartbreaking experiences he’d ever faced, and ever since I’ve been fascinated by such a possibility… Maybe we can even run away to the mountains together, live our life on our own terms.”

“Well, I suppose that sounds nice. I do like the part about running off into the mountains especially.”

Dean considered him seriously for a moment before suddenly barking out a laugh. “I imagine so! But listen to me, saying such things…”

The other man was silent for some time, continually staring at his hand on Sam’s thigh as he skimmed it back-and-forth over the finely made silk. He slowed his movements as he inched closer to the crux of Sam’s legs, but then stopped altogether and withdrew his hand back onto his own lap.

“Tell me about your magic abilities, Sam,” Dean said, blatantly changing the subject, “Do you know many spells?”

“Honestly, I’ve never been very adept at magic.” Sam dropped his head in defeat, feeling rather inept considering what the man next to him was apparently capable of. “They tried to teach me when I was young and I managed to learn a couple of simple things like shielding and enhancing light, but other than that I was a failure. My mother gave the order that spells were not to be used around me – for my protection, she said – so before coming here I’d never really been in a place that used magic so openly.”

Dean looked like he was about to make comment but then thought better of it, instead humming in understanding. “You can protect yourself, though?”

“Well, as I said, I’m not too bad with shields and barriers-”

“No, I mean physically,” Dean interrupted, “You are tall and well built. Your muscles seem toned. You’ve clearly done some sort of training.”

Swallowing, Sam wondered once again just how much it was safe to let slip, but they both seemed to be in the mood for sharing so he carried on as he wished. “My father is all about battles and fighting – of the physical sort, since his own magic ability is quite weak. So growing up I was taught to fight with swords and crossbows and spears and whatever else they threw at me. I hated it and I hated the intentions behind it, so I expressed my dislike openly which, of course, only made my father push me harder. I had a daily training regimen right up to when the marriage was proposed, at which time I was removed from all physical activity and kept in a figurative box for six months.”

“Well that won’t do,” Dean proclaimed, “You ought to be better at magic, thus I shall teach you.”

“What, _now_?”

Dean stood up from the bed and moved several steps away, then turned back to face Sam with his arms outstretched. “Alright, I’m going to throw a simple spell toward you and I want you to try and reflect it back to me. Don’t merely shield against it like you’re probably used to doing, you need to try and push back at it as well.”

Stunned, but nodding his comprehension, Sam focussed himself mentally and prepared to do exactly as the other man had said. He sensed the prickle of burgeoning magic in the air and instantly threw his hands up in a shielding motion, feeling Dean’s spell nudge against his barrier like a soap bubble and then bounce back off into the air again.

Dropping his hands, Dean gaped at him as though he’d just been poked in the stomach. “H-how did you do that?”

“Uh, I felt your spell gathering and put my shield up just before you threw the spell?”

Dean’s wide eyes continued to stare at him, amazed. “You _felt_ my spell before I’d even finished conjuring it?”

“W-well, yes,” Sam stuttered in alarm, “Just a light tickle over the skin-”

“Have you ever told anyone about that before?”

“I… don’t know? Maybe not? I don’t remember.”

“Sam… I’m starting to think…” Dean touched a hand to his chin in thought. “I think you might be a special type of magic user called a Receptor.”

“A what? But I told you I’m hopeless at magic. I know all of two spells, Dean. _Two._ ”

“I don’t think you realise what this means,” Dean stated plainly, and then muttered to himself for a moment before coming to a new conclusion. “I’m going to throw another spell at you, alright?”

Sam nodded mechanically.

“This time instead of pushing it away, I want you to try and draw it in – absorb it like a sponge.”

There was no time to protest before Dean was already raising the spell and hurling it in his direction. Sam pulled back on the reflex to invoke another shield, and tried to imagine a sponge in his mind, soaking up magic like water from a bucket. And no sooner had the image floated across his thoughts than he felt the sudden intrusion of a foreign magic, passing through and into his skin like a brief gust of wind. He could feel it floating and rolling around inside, a strange but oddly invigorating sensation, and with eyes wide as an owl’s, he glanced up at Dean who burst into maniacal laughter.

“Dean, you must tell me – what does this mean?”

Dean said nothing, and simply grinned.

\---{{x}}---

_“Cas, what’s the matter? You’ve been strange lately – won’t you tell me?”_

_The Northerner looked at him with those icy blue eyes, barely blinking. Usually they were ever-searching and full of intensity, but here they were vacant, almost dead-looking, something in Castiel’s consciousness was away off in the distance._

_“I am sorry, Dean. I know I’ve been drowning in thought of late, skipping around the edges of the present… But I’ve been having dreams quite frequently these past few days... I cannot tell whether they are simply symbolic of the matters which have been occurring around us, or if perhaps I’ve been experiencing moments of foresight.”_

_“But I thought…” Dean stopped, his confusion getting the better of him. Castiel had told him in the beginning that the foresight was a gift bestowed upon only the elders of the North, and Castiel was by no means an elder._

_“I know,” Castiel agreed, his fingers threading together as they often did when he was deep in consideration. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible either, but I was always taught to follow my instincts, and these visions are far more clear and precise than any I have endured before.”_

_“But what does it mean? Is there a place you must go? A task to complete?”_

_Castiel sighed. “It means that at a time when I am gone, you will be married.”_

_“Married?” Dean exclaimed._

_“Yes. It will be both horrific and magnificent all at once.”_

_“But, what-”_

_“This,” Castiel began, reaching into the pocket of his coat and retrieving a smooth red gem that sat easily within the centre of his palm, “We will carve runes on this, and one day it will cause a life to be saved.”_

_Dean swallowed, not just a little shocked by the intensity of the situation. “What would you have me do?”_

_“What would I have you do?” the older man repeated, “I would have you do exactly as I say, and no less. So listen carefully.”_

\---{{x}}---

The following day, Sam had barely finished his midday meal when an attendant he’d never seen before entered into his room, brandishing a grey woollen cloak which he threw over Sam’s shoulders and fastened at his neck. Words of protest were on the tip of his tongue when he suddenly spotted his father in the doorway, and he quickly swallowed his discontent. Samwell stalked towards him, an unreadable look on his face, and offered no explanations or apologies – as was his way. Something small and round was tucked securely in his hand, but Sam recognised the rune-adorned stone, an implement his father used to multiply his weak magic abilities into a more normal and acceptable strength. The presence of it worried Sam greatly, and he feared that someone had discovered his meeting with Dean the previous night, but he knew better than to go blurting anything out before he knew what was going on.

Samwell stopped and stood barely half an arm’s length away from his son and looked up. Sam was considerably taller than his father and had been since the age of fifteen, but those cold and merciless eyes never failed to make him feel all of two-foot tall. The older man reached forward and pulled the hood of the cloak up over Sam’s head, the fabric flopping down over his eyes. 

“Father, don’t--”

Instantly raising a hand, Samwell slapped him into silence, his expression as hateful as it ever was. He then uttered a few short words under his breath and Sam felt the icy tingle of a spell curl around his upper body, skimming along the hair on the back of his neck, and then wink out immediately after.

“Lord Winchester’s son has insisted on meeting you, my disapproval notwithstanding. They say he is trustworthy but I will take no chances.”

With that, Samwell turned and strode out, the attendant gripping Sam’s arm and urging him to follow. He was brought to a small assembly room where carpets lined the floor and several portrait paintings hung from the stone walls – it was modest yet screamed power, and waiting there in the centre of it was Dean, dressed in the finery expected of a Lord’s son, with his father standing behind him several lengths back. Jondison Winchester was leaning against the frame of the fireplace, dressed in simple but expensive-looking clothing, scratching at the salt-and-pepper scruff of his beard. He looked relaxed and almost disinterested, but Sam could feel the sharpness of his eyes and knew a ruthless man when he saw one.

Glancing to his side he found Samwell and his mother standing there looking awkward and out of place. Marivale looked as incensed as he’d ever seen her, which was saying something, but his father put a hand on her shoulder and she made the effort to school her features. With a tug on his cloaked arm, Sam was led further forward and pushed ungracefully to his knees before Dean, the cloak’s hood shielding all but Dean’s feet and ankles from view.

“You’re all just going to stand there are you?” he heard Dean say, but nobody seemed to move and after a huff of irritation he gave in. “Very well then.”

Sam was wondering what could possibly happen next, whether Dean might walk out or something, when he heard the barest whisper of _‘Get ready’_ , and suddenly the prickle of magic rolled over his body and he understood perfectly. Just as they’d practiced the night before, he mentally latched on to the threads of Dean’s power and willed it as strong as iron, reinforcing the barrier Dean created as it snapped into place.

He could hear the protests of both their parents from outside the glass-like barricade, but they were muffled and virtually unintelligible, so he payed them no mind.

“Keep your head down, Sam,” Dean urged, his voice low and hurried, “We must play our roles, and we must be quick before my father calls on Azazel, his sorcerer, to break this shield down. Now listen, I’ve been… Sam? Speak! Why are you not-? Are you hurt?”

It was only once he actually tried to speak that Sam finally came to the conclusion that he _couldn’t_. He had thought his father’s spell had been to keep him in place, to stop him from running and making an embarrassment of their family, but no, instead he had made good on his earlier threat and stolen Sam’s voice away.

Thankfully Dean was a quick study and caught on to what the problem was.

“You can’t speak, can you?”

Sam gave the slightest shake of his head he could manage.

“So be it. You can click your fingers, can you not?”

Realising the other man’s thoughts, Sam quickly snapped his fingers in response.

“Perfect. Let’s make it one click yes, two clicks no. Apart from your voice, are you otherwise uninjured?”

_Click._

“Good. So no one discovered our meet-up last night?”

_Click._

“Excellent. Have you had a chance to read up on the Eastern Borderlands like I suggested?”

_Click, click_

“You really should. I’ll see if I can find you some material like I said I would – the more you know about how to act around here, the better off you’ll be. Honestly, I admire your mother’s guts for even showing her face – most men in these lands consider women worth nothing but for their three holes and the children they breed, and once you’re married to me, it’ll be little better for _you_. Good thing you’re as big as you are, that’ll keep some of them away.”

He was already hunched over, but Sam’s shoulders slumped further again – the reminder of his soon-to-be status was like icy water down the back of his shirt. Terrible and shocking and leaving him with lingering anger and discomfort for some time after. He’d always been of the belief that his cousin had damaged both his body and reputation on purpose – and Sam honestly couldn’t find it in him to blame the boy – but more than that, he would never forgive his parents for offering him in Adam’s place, not when they clearly had knowledge of Eastern society and politics. He wondered if they really hated him that much – and for what reason? – though even more curious was what manner of ‘compensation’ Samwell would receive for tendering his youngest son.

He sighed. _Click._

“I’ve been doing a little reading myself to get a better idea of how Receptors work. I’ll tell you more later, but you need to be particularly careful of what you put in your body, alright? You’re extremely strong against external attack, but you’re vulnerable to any kind of magic that you eat or drink or inhale, and so on.”

_Click._

“Okay, then. We ought to end this before the people start to fuss. If anyone asks what we talked about, just say something along the lines of my wanting to know if you’re a virgin and if you’ve been touched by a man, if your big feet mean you’ve got a big cock, if you like the sight of blood, if you don’t mind being on your knees – those sorts of things.”

_Click._

“Good. Now we need to bring this thing down. Ready?”

On Dean’s signal, Sam reached out to the shield with his mind, and plucked at the solid threads like one might pluck at the strings of a harp. The barrier collapsed like a rush of water and Sam dropped his hands to the floor, letting the remnants of the spell absorb through the floor and into his fingers. The sensation shocked him – he hadn’t known he could do that – and he could feel Dean’s equally stunned expression looking down at him, but now simply wasn’t the time for questions.

“What did you think you were doing, boy?” Lord Winchester’s voice sounded like oil over gravel, but there was more intrigue present than anger.

“Just trying out a little something, Father. Nothing to worry about I assure you.”

With that, Dean strode off like the cavalier prick he pretended to be, and the meeting ended with an ongoing stream of choked silence. Even as he was pulled to his feet by the attendant, Sam touched his hand to his imprisoned throat and looked pleadingly to his father, but the man was already heading for the door, Marivale scurrying timidly after him.

\---{{x}}---

There were only two nights remaining before his marriage and Sam couldn’t stop his body from shaking. He couldn’t discern whether it might be nerves, or if he could be coming down with something, but he knew he just didn’t feel right. His mouth felt sticky, so he stumbled over to the nightstand and poured himself a mug of water from the pottery jug there, chugging it all down without a breath. It made him feel slightly better, but there was still something churning around in his gut that greatly unsettled him.

Turning again to his nightstand he found his regular pre-ritual potion already poured into a pure silver goblet, and a shortbread biscuit dusted with sweet powder to chase down the horrible taste – he still found little purpose to the potion, for while his mother insisted it would ‘cleanse his insides’, Sam hadn’t noticed any kind of ‘clean’ feeling whatsoever in all the days he’d been taking it so far. Nevertheless, he consumed the two items as was expected of him, and went about readying himself for bed since he didn’t think he could bring himself to read at all.

He dropped quickly into an unsteady slumber, and found himself plagued by gruesome dreams of his cousin’s punishment, his older sister’s bonding ceremony that he’d witnessed years before, and all the potentially terrifying outcomes of his own bonding, despite all Dean’s comforting words. He envisioned his mother coming to his bedside with a feral look in her eyes, taking him into her arms and pacifying him like a child. She had another silver goblet in her hand and she pushed it at his mouth, forcing some foul-smelling liquid down his throat.

He dreamed waking up coughing and spluttering, only to find himself enfolded again in the arms of his mother, and she shushed him as she used to do when he was a boy, talking in that hypnotic way of hers, telling him that he was going to be okay, that mother was going to fix everything and he wouldn’t have to be sad anymore.

It should have been a pleasant image, but it had been many years since his mother had been a figure he could call pleasant, and the impression of her breasts pressing against his neck and shoulder only made him feel nauseous, and he began to squirm, attempting to escape her embrace.

 _‘Why do you fight me, my son?’_ she moaned, smothering his face with her hand, _‘I only want to help you! I only want to save you from all that terrible pain those monsters will cause you!’_

Two of her fingers snaked into his throat and pressed on his tongue, causing him to choke. _‘They broke me once before, I won’t let them break me again! This time it will be on my terms.’_

Sam struggled harder-

“Sam!”

-trying to get an arm free-

“Sam!”

-to push her away.

“Sam!”

Sam came awake, gasping for breath; his body still alight with fear. His awareness came steadily back to the present, and in looking to his side he found the calming presence of Dean, whose body was wrapped around him, holding down his limbs.

“Spirits above, what on earth were you dreaming about, man? Your limbs were flailing about like some strange creature from the lake.”

Slumping back onto the sheets, Sam willed his gulping breaths and racing heart rate back to normal.

“I hope your sleep isn’t troubled like that every night, you would never get any rest. And, well, nor would I once we’re married. Perhaps I’ll have to find ways to tire you out before bedtime.”

Sam merely looked intently at the other man and implored him to see.

“Come now, what have I done to warrant the silent treatme-… Oh, wait. Your father hasn’t removed the silence spell, has he?”

Extracting his hands from Dean’s hold, he gave a wry grin. 

_Click._

“Very well then,” Dean acknowledged with a laugh. “Now, while I could dismiss your little problem quite easily, I think it would be more beneficial if you did it yourself, don’t you agree?”

Sam stared at him in disbelief.

“Sam, after everything you’ve learned in the past couple of days, the fact that you still think so uselessly of yourself speaks volumes. Now, have a little faith and do as I say.”

He nodded.

“The offending spell is centred around your throat, so you need to focus on that area and try to sense the magic that’s restricting you. Then imagine you’re gathering all the magic you want to get rid of into one single place, as if you’ve spilled a bottle of marbles and you’re pulling them all back toward you before they can roll away. Now, were you anyone else, I’d tell you to expel it all, but since you’re _you_ , I want you to think of the magic as a bite of food that’s gotten stuck on the way down, and I want you to swallow it.”

Dean’s instructions sounded ridiculous, but despite his reservations Sam did exactly as he was told, his eyes blinking wide with surprise when he felt the spell sink smoothly down into his stomach and mingle with the other magic he had absorbed into his body over the past two days. If only he’d known sooner…

“Better?”

“Yes,” Sam croaked, his voice rough from disuse.

“Are you alright? Your body still shakes, though - that dream really tangled with your thoughts, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, I just…” Sam shook his head, still trying to throw off the unsettling memories of his nightmare. “I just remembered something I’d forgotten. But it doesn’t matter – what are you doing in here anyway?”

“Thought I’d check up on you. That’s not a crime, is it?”

“Perhaps not. Though the same can’t be said for your breaking and entering act getting in here.”

With a smug laugh, Dean wriggled closer against him, nosing against his shoulder. It was only then that Sam realised what kind of position he was in – while Dean was still clothed in breeches and a loosely tied shirt, Sam wore only a thin sleeping gown that had slipped open during his struggles. On top of which, Dean’s arms and legs were still wrapped around him securely and the outline of something hard was pressing against his hip.

“Dean-”

“Do you feel that, Sammy? You’ve got me so hard already. You didn’t even have to try.”

Dean thrust against him and slipped a hand inside his robe, causing Sam to gasp at the intimate contact. The other man’s fingers stroked him from nipple to waist to hip and then lower again, and Sam could feel Dean’s cock twitching and rubbing against his side even through the layers of fabric between them. It shocked him at first, the onslaught of sensations, but the longer Dean touched and appeased him, the easier it became to accept the physical connection, and the more he couldn’t deny the flares of want suddenly bursting inside his stomach.

“Soon, I’ll be inside you here,” Dean whispered, two fingers dipping between his buttocks and swirling teasingly around the furled ring of muscle there, “It’ll be your first time, won’t it? Do you think you’ll enjoy it? Do you think it’ll make your cock hard?”

His breath blew warm and heavy against Dean’s clothed chest, but Sam merely burrowed into the crux of his arm, too afraid to give any semblance of an answer – muted or otherwise. He’d managed to read several scripts on Borderlands history and social practices earlier that day, but all it served to do was remind him of the brutal and sex-driven society that thrived on this side of the country, and that despite Dean’s aversion to it, he was still a product of his upbringing, and at their marriage consummation certain things were going to be expected of them both.

Still, holding himself tense, Sam could never openly admit that he would do anything to avoid penetration. He had seen it happen before – the instance of his older sister’s bonding was ever stuck in his mind – and the act of it only conjured more thoughts of pain and forced submission, the degradation of a body that was surely worth as much as the next man’s. But what was to happen was already set in stone, and the only alternative at this stage was an unlikely escape or death.

“Hey,” Dean said a moment later, his voice surprisingly tender, “I know what you’re thinking. I know you don’t want this, and I would change it if I could, but unfortunately certain things are required of us and we will just have to take them as they are. That said… I want you to enjoy my touch if you can, I don’t want our bonding to hurt more than it has to and fingering you like this does help, trust me.”

The two fingers felt larger than they were as Dean continued his attentions, dipping his fingertips in to the first knuckle and then withdrawing. Sam remained silent.

“Do you wish to know my secret? I’ll tell you anyway...” Picking up one of Sam’s hands, he guided it around to his back and let Sam’s fingertips drag over the tight whorl of his own entrance. “I prefer this. I prefer to get fucked, to have another man’s cock splitting me open – to me it’s like nothing else. My father would kill me if he knew, would probably fuck me himself before he did it just to make a point, but I’ve never told anybody except Castiel. And even then I never told him about my true transgressions, how I like to dress in disguise and go down to one of the brothels in the town and have men use me like a common whore.”

Sam’s breath hitched, taken aback by both Dean’s admission and the excessive number of fingers now probing at his ass. It was an unnerving combination, and yet somehow still becoming the most erotic moment he’d ever experienced.

“I hope one day you can learn to like this like I do,” Dean breathed, “We could share so much pleasure… Oh, I know what I’ll do. I’m going to get you a toy.”

“A toy?”

“I assure you, it won’t be a child’s toy. I will leave it under your pillow sometime tomorrow.”

Sam couldn’t hide his confusion. “And what will I do with said _toy_?”

Chuckling, Dean pressed two fingers slowly into his body. “It’s called a plug, and you put it in _here_. You lather your fingers with oil first and you stretch yourself open like I’m doing to you now. Then you press the plug inside – gently, gently – until your ass just sucks it right in.”

His mouth felt oddly dry, and Sam couldn’t avoid noticing the burgeoning arousal between his own legs. It had been months since he’d last touched himself – recent events hadn’t exactly been conducive for self-pleasure, not to mention his father’s nasty spell that had eventually worn away – but suddenly the lack of release came back to hit him with full force.

“Something that Castiel taught me,” Dean went on, “Was how to infuse objects with magic using runes. I used to practice by etching the runes into a plug, and then putting it inside myself to see what it would do. I could make them grow in length or width, or make them pulsate like a heartbeat, or turn to liquid or even ice. You can’t even imagine how amazing it feels to have water washing around inside you until you’ve-”

One minute Sam had thought himself on the verge of spilling his seed all over himself like a young boy, but the next he was yanking both of his hands up on instinct, grabbing at his head as a wave of hot pain crashed down behind his eyes. His vision blurred around the edges, and he wasn’t sure how long he blanked out for, but when he came back to the present Dean was on his knees beside him, both their clothes were righted, and there was not a shred of evidence of what had just transpired between them.

“Sam, do you get these headaches often?”

“Uh,” Sam cleared his throat, “Occasionally. But the onset is quick and they’re usually just as fast to alleviate, so I’ve never worried much.”

“Hmm.”

It wasn’t hard to see that Dean didn’t believe a word he’d said, but he wasn’t sure what other information he could – or should – offer. It had only occurred a handful of times, but he’d always been fine afterwards. Honestly, he’d blamed it on the stress of being cooped up for so many months, and who was to say he was wrong?

“Come on, then,” Dean prompted, heaving himself off the bed and tugging Sam along with him.

“What- why? Where are we going?”

Dean dragged him out onto the balcony without a word, down a nearly hidden set of steps and through a practically invisible wooden door. “There’s a meditation room in the tower of the castle’s left wing. No one really goes in there anymore, so we should be safe.”

“Right, but why exactly-”

Rounding on him in the middle of whatever secret passage they had entered, Sam had to step back at the intensity glowing in Dean’s eyes. It was a stark reminder that despite all his kindnesses so far, the other man was both magically and physically strong in ways Sam could not yet comprehend.

“Do you still not see? Someone’s trying to hurt you, Sam. They’ve probably been trying for a while now. And when I said that Receptors are vulnerable to things they inhale and ingest, I wasn’t joking. Thus, we are going to the meditation room to invoke the Spirits of Earth and ask them to cleanse you. I will _not_ lose you before I’ve even gotten the chance to have you in the first place.”

\---{{x}}---

Sam returned to his chambers after another lonesome evening meal, flinching when he felt the tingle of magic as it surrounded the door, securing him inside. He still couldn’t seem to adjust to his lack of freedom, but if Dean turned out to be as sincere and well-meaning as he appeared then he hoped things would change once they were married. He hadn’t seen the other man all day, not since the previous night when they’d escaped to the meditation room in the left-wing tower, where they’d invoked the Spirits of the Earth over a stone altar laden with charcoal and petrified wood and appealed to them for health and safety. Sam shivered as he recalled the foreign aura that had flooded the room like a dark cloud and snaked over his limbs like a python, probing at the shell of his body as it had looked for a way in – he had once seen a Shaman back in the West whom had summoned up a great spirit and let it possess his body, but never would he have imagined taking part in such a thing himself.

He and Dean had held hands until their fingers went numb; the disembodied presences still dancing around them, until eventually both their bodies had been breached, the spirits sending their consciousnesses rattling around in their heads like marbles in a glass bottle. Sam remembered feeling as though he had been tied down and that he had become a mere observer to the actions of his own body, yet he could still sense everything that he touched or tasted or smelled, which – in the end – was all Dean.

Sam had ‘watched’ as both his and Dean’s forms were manipulated, their bodies coming together pulling at each other’s sleeping robes until they were flung carelessly to the side, leaving them naked. Then they had been all over each other as if possessed with lust itself – tongues grappling sloppily between their lips, grunts and groans resonating through their chests and their hands grabbing haphazardly at each other’s genitals. The longer their bodies were in contact, the hazier with pleasure Sam’s mind had become, and he soon zoned-out, only returning to himself once the spirits had withdrawn, leaving the two of them entangled on the floor, sticky with saliva and semen, four of Sam’s fingers buried in the crevice between Dean’s legs.

Realising what had happened, Sam had let go a cry of horror and attempted to back away, only to be stopped by Dean’s quick reflexes. His soon-to-be had drawn him back in close, and had shown no qualms in pulling Sam’s hands to his face and licking his fingers clean of fluids. Sam had baulked at the behaviour and Dean’s seeming enjoyment in it, but the other man had merely grinned at his appalled expression and nipped playfully at his lips, promising that such an event was a good sign.

Dean had assured him that such a possession was considered a gift, and it meant that one way or another the spirits were watching over them and would act when they deemed it necessary, not before. Sam wasn’t totally convinced that the spirits forcing such an act upon them indicated that their prayers had been heeded or that he had been ‘cleansed’, but since he had so little knowledge of such things, he would just have to take the other man at his word.

His thoughts returning to the present, Sam moved into the bedroom area and knelt onto the mattress, lifting the pillow to find a small cotton bag, just as Dean had said. He pulled it into his lap and spilled out the contents, finding a vial of thick, sweet-smelling oil and an object of light-coloured wood, shaped vaguely like a small pear with a flared handle on the end, and perfectly smooth and sealed with lacquer. Turning it over in his hands he found a rune carved into the base of the plug, the meaning of which he knew to be ‘growth’ – the item was charmed, infused with magic, just like Dean had said it would be, and it would activate once it was used for its intended purpose.

Eager, he pulled closed the curtains and divested himself of his clothes, positioning himself on the bed with the light of only a couple of candles to guide him. Carefully, he did as Dean had suggested, lying on his back with his legs open, coating his fingers with oil and delicately circling them round and round the tight pucker of his entrance, before finally pushing one inside. It felt odd, just as Dean had said it would, but he pressed on, twisting it around as he became accustomed to the sensation, and once he decided he was ready, he added the second finger into the mix.

It felt too tight at first, as though they wouldn’t go any further, but the longer he left them there, the easier it became to move them around, scissoring the fingers back-and-forth inside himself and stretching the muscles out slowly. He poured a little more oil and slipped a third finger in, taking a breath at the strange ‘full’ feeling and gradually beginning to propel the fingers in and out of his hole. He pushed them a little deeper each time, searching just like Dean had told him to, and gasped when he found what he was looking for, going back and rubbing at the same spot until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

Glancing down he was surprised to find his cock to be almost completely hard, and Sam gave himself a couple of quick pleasurable tugs, simply because he could. But he had another agenda just at that moment, and upon withdrawing his fingers from down below, he took the wooden plug into his hand and slicked it up with oil before lining it up with his entrance and slowly pushing it forward. He felt the initial stretch keenly as the tip penetrated, but he twisted and turned the object as he went, breathing evenly and only going as steadily as he dared, and before long he was swallowing up the widest part of the plug and allowing it to settle on its own.

He only had to wait a brief few moments before he felt the faint tingle of magic, and the plug began to change inside him. At first all that came was a prickling warmth, but then the plug itself started to change shape, expanding outward before shrinking back in and then expanding outward once more. It was almost uncomfortable in the way it seemed to chaotically nudge around inside of him, but the longer he withstood it, the greater the pleasure he found in the sensation, and soon it was worming its way even deeper into his body.

Without warning it brushed against that most sensitive place, and Sam gasped aloud, his cock suddenly crying for attention. Hastily he took himself in hand and began to stroke, angling his wrist as he glided toward the tip – just the way he’d liked it before the act had been denied him. Everything that had happened of late had built up inside his heart and the sheer pressure of it drew him to the edge much quicker than expected. Working his hand frantically, he threw himself over and into release with a choked-off sob, his seed splattering over his stomach and chest.

Sam felt somehow accomplished as he slumped back on his pillows and pondered the feeling of having such a thing trapped inside of him. It was still more than peculiar, and he wasn’t sure if it was a sensation he could really ever get used to, but for now it was certainly erotic, and even more than that it was serving a purpose. Dean had given him a small ‘out’ from just one of the pains he was to suffer for the sake of their bonding, and he couldn’t have been more thankful.

\---{{x}}---

_“Are things progressing as planned?”_

_“So far as I can tell. The Lord eats from the palm of my hand lately, especially as the bonding draws near.”_

_“That’s good to hear.”_

_“And what of you? Have you been playing your part?”_

_“Of course. I’ve been dosing the boy exactly as you proposed.”_

_“But?”_

_“But. His reaction to the potion doesn’t seem as potent as you suggested it would be. It went well at first – the nightmares, the fevers – but the past couple of days have been… lacking somewhat. I don’t know what to do.”_

_“I see…Then we will just have to find a way to remedy the situation, won’t we?”_

\---{{x}}---

The music started and Dean was startled from his daze, looking up from underneath his hooded robe to see the similarly cloaked figure at the opposite end of the throne room. Sam stepped forward in time with the traditional tune that played, a ceremonial rope coiled around his hands, and Dean smiled despite that no one could see his face. The action made him wince, however, and he barely stopped himself from bringing a hand to his face to soothe the ache. He’d stupidly approached his father the night before about Sam being drugged – naturally he didn’t mention their nightly visits, merely that when he’d met the other man two days prior he’d seemed ‘off’ and since he ‘didn’t want a tainted prize for a bride’ he wanted the matter seen to immediately. Johndison had drunkenly barked a laugh and slapped him to the floor, crying to the Spirits to grant his witless son a pair of proper balls. ‘If he’s drugged then all the better, boy,’ he’d ranted, ‘You can smack ‘im around an’ fuck his holes until the sun comes up an’ he’ll just lie there and let it happen like a good little whore’.

The mere memory of it made Dean’s blood boil and his fists clenched under the long sleeves of his robe. Ever since Castiel had begun teaching him at the age of fourteen, he’d started acting out his small rebellions at every chance – producing forbidden spells, skipping important meetings, sneaking out onto the streets and visiting the common pleasure houses – but rarely had he ever spoken out directly to his father in such a way. Each of the times he’d done so had ended in the same way, with some part of his body aching and bruised. He wondered what Sam would say about the state of his face, and consequently looked back up to the tall figure across the way.

The room was crowded with Lords and aristocrats, merchants, slave-traders, royal heralds and other men of high standing, all dressed in their fine clothes and adornments, all no doubt present to see what manner of poor boy the notorious Lord Winchester would put at the mercy of his son. And very few eyes strayed from Sam’s cloaked figure, no matter that they couldn’t see his face, his height and the breadth of his shoulders said enough about his appearance. Dean could see the intrigue drifting through the attentions of their audience, some clearly contemplating whether a man of such size might try to turn the tables on the Lord’s son and fight him for dominance, while others were already watering at the mouth at the thought of such a powerfully bodied man submitting eagerly to someone physically inferior.

Dean wanted to spit in the face of each and every one of them, even if he knew it wouldn’t do him any good – would likely get him killed, in fact. So he turned his attention back to Sam who was moving gradually closer to the dais on which he stood at the front of the room. Something about the way he approached was amiss, and as Dean scrutinised the other man’s gait more closely, he noticed the strange wobble that Sam’s torso made with every second step – seemingly he was struggling to stay upright, and Dean hoped that he could at least make it to the front of the room, Spirits help them if he collapsed beforehand.

Eventually Sam moved level with Dean and the music died away, prompting the two elders standing by the edge of the dais – one from each of their clans – to step forward and begin reciting the appropriate chants. Dean got lost amid the never-ending mantras, his mind drifting off onto unnecessary matters, but something brought him back to the present, and he realised it was the wheezing breaths coming from under Sam’s hood.

“Hey, Sam!” Dean hissed under his breath, hoping for the sake of his ongoing life that no one heard him.

“What?” came Sam’s raspy reply – he sounded as if he were on the verge of fainting.

“You alright?”

Sam coughed lightly. “I will be if they hurry this along.”

Holding back his concerns, Dean sighed in relief when the elders finished their initial chant, urging the two to face each other. Dean could hear Sam’s wheezing more clearly this way, but dared not say anything as the rope was taken from Sam and both their left hands were pulled out in front. A bejewelled dagger was produced by one of the elders and he slashed a line from wrist to middle fingertip on each of them, then pressed their bleeding hands together and secured the rope around their wrists to hold them in place.

Again the chanting started up, and Dean felt the light ‘snap’ of a spell as it fastened around their wrists even more firmly than the rope, and he wondered what other magic was at work there and if Sam was able to sense it as keenly as he had that first night. The elder’s words droned on all the while, though this time they were accompanied by the dispersion of strong incense, the scent heady and thick and likely laced with something, since Dean felt his head whirl for a moment after choking in a particularly strong whiff of it. He worried over Sam’s reaction to it considering the other man’s susceptibility to inhaled substances, but thankfully the remaining formalities didn’t last too much longer and Dean was able to help Sam to his feet and proceed back down the aisle, their hands still strapped together.

They were immediately ushered into an antechamber just outside the throne room, and servants were present to help remove their robes and fix the formal clothes they had been wearing underneath. Sam gripped onto Dean’s wrist all the while, but squeezed tightly in distress when he caught a look at the dark smudge of a bruise on Dean’s face, his expression of fatigue morphing into something more akin to rage. Dean merely gave a short smile and shrugged his shoulders with indifference, hoping the younger man wouldn’t worry about it, but it wasn’t hard to see that Sam wasn’t going to let it go so easily – no doubt Dean would hear about it later.

Chairs were brought in and they were permitted to sit in silence for a time as all the guests were being seated out in the hall, the noise of their raucous chatter reverberating off the smooth stone walls and filling the small chamber as well as if said guests had been in there with them. The grinding screech of wood over stone joined in the cacophony as the men began seating themselves at the feasting tables, and Sam swayed where he sat, the harsh sound piercing through his skull and bounding repeatedly between his ears.

Dean squeezed his hand again, sending him an encouraging look. “Hang in there. We just have to get through the dinner-”

“Silence!” The elder supervising them bellowed, “Or I shall have you both flogged.”

Dean levelled his darkest stare at the older man, but the elder merely returned the sentiment in kind.

“In public. Naked, if you prefer,” the man added with a leer.

With a growl, Dean sat back in his seat and silently plotted the elder’s gruesome and impending demise, while Sam looked back at him with a wry smile on his face, as though he knew exactly what the other was thinking. Barely a few minutes had passed when the second elder from the marriage ceremony came to retrieve them, and led them to their seats at the head of the central feasting table. The hundreds of people gathered there hollered and shouted as they bowed and sat down, but even over the din Dean could hear Sam’s angered and suffering murmurs once he realised that Dean would have to feed him because of the way their hands were tied.

Dean reassured him as best he could, and they progressed through the feast with minimal humiliation, Dean making sure that he ate and drank first for fear of any of the food being tampered with. All was well, thankfully, but both were glad when the elders approached them once their plates were empty, and unwound the rope from around their wrists, instantly breaking whatever spell had been placed there. Sam winced when their hands were separated, the skin pulling from the adhesion of their dried blood, but the scabs held and he was able to spread his fingers without too much trouble.

Each of the clan leaders – Lord Winchester followed by Sam’s father – got up to make speeches, stating the terms of their allegiance and the treaty which would allow a new pact of trade between the East and West, but both Sam and Dean scoffed under their breaths at all the pretty words that were thrown around, knowing well that they were merely pawns in their fathers’ cheap game of politics.

Eventually the feast was dismissed and the party began, the alcohol flowing freely, and music playing traditional songs – the sounds produced by dozens of magically-enhanced instruments which bounced loudly off the high stone ceilings of the great hall and prompted many to stagger drunkenly to their feet and dance wildly.

Sam and Dean merely looked to each other and silently vowed to escape the unruly celebrations at their first opportunity.

\---{{x}}---

Dean later found Sam hiding away in a small bolthole situated behind the throne room. The music from the main hall echoed throughout the entire castle and followed him inside, even through a hand-span worth of stone. Sam didn’t seem to notice any of it however, lost in his thoughts as he stared out the tiny window, and in joining him Dean could see the full moon just peeping over the horizon. He moved up behind Sam, wrapping solid arms around his waist, and found the younger man to be shaking, his skin clammy.

“You were easier to find than I expected,” Dean said, trying to encourage his new partner to perk up.

“I’ll try better next time,” was Sam’s reply, and Dean immediately forced him backward onto the small chaise longue perched against the back wall.

“Whoa, what-?”

Reaching out a hand, Sam’s finger grazed the purpling splotch on the side Dean’s face, prompting him to turn his head away with a hiss.

“It looks even worse than it did earlier,” Sam said, his displeasure evident.

“Then it must be the bad lighting in here or something, because-”

“Who did you fight with, Dean?”

“Who else but my father?” he spat, “I tried to reason that I thought you were being drugged, but as you can imagine he didn’t give a shit. Rather, he thought I was being weak, and that was unacceptable.”

Sam sighed and sagged back onto the lounge. “We’re both fools, you know. Thinking our fathers would ever understand us or take our side. We should have given up long ago – indeed I think I’ve already given up, at least in my heart if not my mind.”

“You speak as if you’re going to your death.”

“Am I not?”

Dean wanted to refute the comment, wanted to give the ‘no, of course not’ response that Sam secretly longed to hear. But in that moment, where honesty lingered, where Sam was slouched back on the lounge, sweaty and shaking and suffering, Dean couldn’t find the words. He wrapped his hand around Sam’s own, startled to find the skin so obviously over-heated, and in meeting Sam’s gaze he noticed how blown wide his pupils were – truthfully, he reminded Dean of someone who’d had a bad reaction to smoking one of the pipes they passed around in the pleasure houses.

“You really aren’t well, are you?” Dean stated, touching a hand to Sam’s forehead and feeling it burn.

Sam seemed to sway where he sat, “Yeah, not feeling terribly great.”

“Do you need to, uh, _purge_ or anything?”

“No, just feel hot. Dizzy. Sort of… restless or something.”

Nodding, Dean helped Sam to rid himself of his outer clothes, pulling off his boots and jacket, and unbuttoning the thigh-length vest. He stopped at the shirt though, since not only would it take an age to undo all the ties, but when Sam had to redress he would be at a loss – both of them wore shirts where the laces were tied with special ceremonial knots, and Dean hadn’t a clue how to reproduce them, so they would just have to manage.

“Do you think you will be alright to complete the ritual?”

Sam snorted. “I don’t have a whole lot of choice, do I?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Kneeling down by the sofa, Dean ran his hand along the length of Sam’s side, hoping the action might help to soothe him. And indeed Sam did hum with contentment more than once, but soon he started to twitch oddly, shivering at random intervals. He would have used magic to aid the younger man, but if he used too much the elders would be able to sense it when the ritual began later on, and it would upset the balance of power required for their bonding to complete. Dean pulled his hand away, worried, and Sam’s body shifted around as if seeking out the contact again, which consequently brought another issue to Dean’s attention.

“Sam? Do you… Are you aroused?”

Sam groaned and pressed his face into the cushion under his head, his hips twisting back onto the sofa and rutting against it. “Oh, yes. Yes! Shit, I need to-”

“Sam? Sam!” Dean shook the younger man’s shoulder harshly, attempting to recapture his attention. It wasn’t so easy to get Sam to respond this time, and in checking his eyes Dean found that they were watery and blown with lust. “I think someone’s dosed you with some kind of aphrodisiac. Probably in something you ate or drank. We took from the same plate at dinner, so it must have happened earlier.”

Cursing under his breath, Sam sat himself back upright with great effort, though he blushed to see the unmistakable problem jabbing out beneath his breeches. He’d been told at some point when he was younger that there were tonics that could induce this kind of behaviour, that could drive a man to the point of madness if he didn’t find a way to ease the craving. If someone really had dosed him, he was going to have to be far more cautious about what he ingested, just like Dean had said.

“I think we need to, um…” Dean couldn’t help but stare at the sizable ‘bump’ that was straining against the inside of Sam’s well-fitted trousers. He hadn’t been lying when he’d previously told Sam that he preferred being penetrated – and _Gods_ did he ever want that enormous thing all the way inside of him – but whatever was to be done, they were going to have to be quick about it. Good thing Dean was a man always prepared. “I think you need to find release. That should ease the fever. I can’t say what you’ve been given, but could become dangerous if you don’t act.”

Sam forced his hand – which had been unintentionally creeping towards his groin – to stop and grip on to his thigh to keep it there. Dean seemed to have a surprisingly broad knowledge of the way magic worked, so he had little choice but to trust him in this and hope that he could find at least a little relief – just enough to get him through to the ritual was all he required, after that he was practically expendable.

“What do you suggest?”

Dean pondered a moment. “Would you allow me to help you?”

“I… If you’re sure?” Sam locked eyes with the other man but looked away when he felt his cheeks burn – he simply couldn’t help but think back to his bedroom the other night, Dean’s hands all over his most intimate place…

“I’m sure. I want you to take me.”

Sam gaped, his clarity returning to him for a moment. “You want me to _what_? And now? Dean we’ve only got until the full moon reaches its zenith; I don’t believe this is a good idea.”

“It will be your greatest source for relief, though – that’s usually how these sorts of poisons work. The intimate contact should cause the fever to burn itself out.”

The uncertainty was crystal clear on Sam’s face, but Dean was generally quite accurate when it came to solving such problems, and he felt rather confident about the solution despite his bias towards this particular outcome.

“Sam, you shouldn’t worry. It won’t take long and we shall make sure to clean up thoroughly afterward.”

Finally, swallowing down his nerves, Sam agreed, and he shifted further along the lounge to allow room enough for Dean. He watched with a mix of apprehension and anticipation as his soon-to-be stood to loosen his pants, allowing them to drop to his knees before he climbed onto the sofa on all fours.

“You’ve got a plug in?” Sam exhaled a shaky breath and reached out to touch; reverently smoothing his hand over Dean’s bare behind like a ripe prize. The plug was smoothed wood just like the one Dean had left him earlier, only that the rune carved this time read ‘long’.

“I anticipated this,” Dean confessed, “Not the _when_ , obviously, but I assumed it would be soon and that since you’re rather big, I should prepare myself. Hence the plug, which coincidentally will save us some time.”

Sam chuckled. “You’re secretly a bit of a slut, aren’t you Dean? Just like the whores at the pleasure houses.”

“Oh, already you know me so well,” Dean joked in response, and he pushed his breeches down a little more so he could spread his legs further apart.

Circling his finger around the stretched ring of muscle, Sam looked on in fascination as Dean clenched and released around the wooden plug, the base of it jostling around without him even needing to touch it. But eventually he couldn’t help himself, the increasing fever in his body forcing his hand and he grabbed onto the toy and tugged. The sound of Dean groaning sent a pang of fire-hot needles down his spine, and Sam licked his lips as the long shaft-like plug slid smoothly out, leaving a gaping mouth in its wake, lips still glistening with oil.

“Delicious,” Sam hissed, hypnotised, dropping the plug carelessly to the side and wasting no further time as he loosened his breeches just enough to pull his cock free, giving it a single painful stroke before ramming it into Dean’s body without care.

Dean cried out in shock, thankful that enough music was still wafting down the hallways to cover their noise, as once Sam found his rhythm, it was as though he was possessed, thrust after deep thrust rolling through like a machine. He tried to squirm and shift his hips to a better angle, but Sam’s hands held him firm, not giving an inch as his cock plunged in to the hilt every time.

He lost track of time for a short while, simply drowning in the sensation of being so thoroughly fucked, but Dean felt himself snapped back to the present when Sam’s hips finally stuttered, a loud groan resonating through his back as the younger man spilled inside him, and Dean found he only needed a few quick strokes before he too tumbled over the edge, drops of white staining the worn fabric of the sofa. Once he’d gathered his wits about him, Dean pulled away from Sam and fixed his trousers, turning to find his new spouse still recovering his breath.

“Did it help? Are you feeling better?”

Sam grunted and raked his hand through his long hair. “Yes, I don’t feel as hot but… I feel as though I could sleep for an entire week.”

“Unfortunately we don’t have the time,” Dean teased, “We have approximately an hour, at my guess, before they summon us. And I suppose it would be wise that we weren’t in the same place.”

“Agreed,” Sam replied, heaving himself upright and righting his clothes. He watched Dean make a quick exit and head down the hall towards the ongoing party, while Sam went the other way, needing some fresh air before the time came.

\---{{x}}---

Another faceless attendant led Dean into a large bedroom which had been specially set up for the bonding ritual – a generously sized bed with stark white sheets sat in the centre, at its side stood a table where all the required ‘gifts’ were lined up and ready for use, and a long curtain was hung from the ceiling and ran the length of one wall, hiding the chairs where the family members would sit as they watched the ritual proceed.

But more noticeable than any of those things was the sight of Sam in a decadent, green and gold embroidered gown, the sheer fabric only hinting at the darker shadows of his nipples and the force of nature hanging between his legs. Dean’s own cock would have stood immediately to attention were it not for the all-too-familiar sheen of sweat coating Sam’s skin and the oddly discoloured look to his eyes.

Dean approached him, careful not to touch him in any way, lest one of their family members see.

“You look even worse than before,” he whispered under his breath.

“Feel worse, too,” Sam said in reply, his voice breathy and weak. “Someone’s definitely poisoned me – don’t know where or when, and I can’t tell whether they want me dead or if they just want me to mess up this whole ritual business.”

“Just let me do all the work, alright? We’ll get through this.”

“Easy for you to-”

Sam paused when Dean palmed something into his hand with the dexterity of a street thief. Taking a subtle glance downward, Sam discovered a small polished stone of deep red, and might have thought it nothing more than a pebble if not for the translucent quality of it and the line of runes etched down the centre.

“Hide it under the pillow,” Dean advised, “And when the ritual starts take it into your fist and for the life of you, don’t let it go.”

“But… what does it do?”

“A lot of things, but I’d rather not say more than that. Especially considering where we are right now. Just… trust me, please.”

“Fine. But this-”

“ _Shh._ ”

Not a moment later and Lord Winchester strode into the room, proclaiming that the consummation should begin. Samwell and Marivale ambled in behind him and took their seats behind the curtain, followed by the two elders from the public ceremony and Lord Winchester’s personal sorcerer Azazel. The mere knowledge that they would all be observing the whole time made Sam want to throw up his dinner, but turning back to Dean he remembered that the two of them were in this sinking ship together, and maybe, if the Spirits were to be believed, it would be _together_ that they could be saved.

He watched attentively as Dean took the carafe of wine from the altar-like table and half-fill two goblets. Sam wasn’t sure why, but he found himself impelled to watch the other man’s hands as he poured, rather than the wine itself, and in doing so noticed the slightest of trembles as something powdery was tipped in along with the liquid.

Directing a questioning look Dean’s way, all Sam got in return was the same expression as before – the one that read ‘trust me’. Sam was on the verge of doubt over whether he really could trust his new husband, but knew that he had little choice at this point and would simply have to suffer any consequences later on.

A moment later Dean stepped over to him and offered one of the goblets. He took it without objection and linked arms with the other man as they downed the sweet wine, a smile almost rising to Sam’s lips when he recognised the taste as one from his homeland. They each finished the drink and put their empty cups to the side, and a collective sigh was let go upon the realisation that things would become more serious as of right then.

The sound of scraping wood was heard from behind the curtain as the two elders stood from their respective chairs and unfolded the parchments that listed the bonding requirements of each clan. Sam knew a little of what to expect from his own clan having been present at his sister’s bonding a number of years prior – it had been a requirement of her husband’s clan that all family members be in attendance, and though his mother had tried to shield his impressionable eyes, he’d seen more than enough to know about the branding and the blood and the not-very-pleasant sex that ensued. On the other hand he knew next to nothing of the expectations of Dean’s clan, despite having read some social and historical papers that Dean had passed to him, he’d learned little more than the fact that there was some kind of tattooing and ink and pain involved.

“Requirement: Campbell family crest to be branded on visible skin on husband, not anywhere below the waist, thus marking him allied to the Campbell clan. Wife to decide the placement.”

The first of the two elders had spoken, and Sam exhaled audibly as he staggered to his feet and shuffled reluctantly to the hearth built into the far wall, picking up the iron brand from the fire and staring a moment as it glowed orange. Turning back he found that Dean had now removed his shirt and sat himself down on the bed in wait. Approaching, he asked the question - _where?_ \- with his eyes and nodded in understanding when Dean gave a subtle point toward his left shoulder. Putting a hand on his chest to steady him, Sam leaned in close and pressed the glowing iron stencil into Dean’s pectoral without preamble, flinching along with him at the loud _hiss_ and the scent of burning skin that wafted up around them. Sam retracted the metal only as soon as he dared, looking away when the angry red skin was bared, and all but throwing the brand back into the fire where he didn’t have to touch it any longer.

“Requirement,” the second elder said, “Winchester family crest to be carved into wife’s back with ceremonial dagger and magicked ink applied, thus creating a tattoo by which wife shall be recognised as Winchester property.”

“Requirement: At no point shall the wife struggle or protest, neither verbally nor physically, lest they be found in contempt of the binding marriage contract.”

“Requirement: Bloodied imprint of the crest is to be made upon a linen sheet and retained by Winchester clan, serving as a record of wife’s voluntary admission into clan ownership.”

Blinking away the sudden dizziness that had come over him, Sam looked to his husband and found the man’s eyes watering – without doubt the swelling wound on his shoulder was to blame. Something passed between them and they both steeled themselves for what was to come, Sam disrobing and laying himself face down on the sheets, Dean seating himself over Sam’s thighs with the necessary dagger in hand. 

Leaning down over him, Dean made it look as though he were repositioning his Sam’s arms and head while he took the opportunity to whisper faintly in his ear.

“Take the stone,” he prompted, “And don’t fear the pain. I’ve practiced this many times over, so worry not.” 

Immediately complying, Sam quickly grasped the stone from under the pillow and enfolded it in his fist. He did his damnedest to relax as instructed, but the anticipation of the blade cutting into his back was too great and it prolonged the tenseness of his body. He didn’t have to wait long though, before Dean pressed his hands down on to his shoulder blades and made the first cut. Sam waited for the roar of pain but even after several more strokes of the dagger it didn’t come, only a vaguely stinging sensation arose, and still somehow Sam felt detached from it as if it were happening to someone else.

Dean had progressed down toward his waist when the thought occurred, and he wondered if this was the kind of thing his being a Receptor protected him from – nothing was being ingested by his body in any way, only the knife was piercing him and really it was only scraping the surface. 

The other man had been true to his word when he’d said he had practiced, for Dean sat back and informed the elders of his completion only a few minutes later. Sam heard the steps over the stone floor as someone approached the bed, and then a heavy cloth was laid over his back as was demanded by the ritual, light touches pressing down to ensure the pattern of blood was soaked up adequately. 

Soon the cloth was lifted and taken away by the elder, and as Sam glanced to the side to steal a look, it was only then that he saw the state of the bed and realised what a mess had been made – he had thought Dean was barely scratching him with the knife, yet the deep stains in the sheets said that he’d bled like a stuck pig. Of course, it was neither the time nor place to question such a thing, so Sam held his tongue and merely gave himself over as Dean gripped him by the hips and helped him curl his knees up under his torso. He heard the faintest whisper of ‘ _sorry_ ’ come from behind him, before there was the sound of a cork being popped and a cool, slimy sensation coasted over his back.

The ink spilled out quickly and Dean hurriedly put the bottle down, sinking his hands into the black ooze and dispersing it over the expanse of Sam’s back. Once he had it evenly distributed he began to massage it into the skin, forcing the ink into the cuts he’d made with the dagger just moments before, and watching as the dark liquid mixed with the blood that continued to seep slowly from the wounds.

Sam shifted as Dean started to rub the ink into his skin, his fingers pressing deep and rousing the ache in his damaged flesh. At first the pigment felt cool sliding across him, but the longer the other man continued to massage the ink into the carved family crest, the more the sensation changed, the feeling steadily graduating from a mild warmth into an all-out searing burn. He wanted badly to cry out and express his agony to the outside, but something inside him held him back, and Sam bit down on his bottom lip, tears squeezing from his eyes, gripped even harder onto the charmed stone in his fist, and gritted it out.

“Requirement: husband is to penetrate the wife bodily. No preparation is to be given as to demonstrate submission via a voluntary undertaking of pain, and at no point shall the wife struggle or protest, neither verbally nor physically, lest they be found in contempt of the binding marriage contract.”

“Requirement: husband will layer his organ with magicked ink before penetration, thus staining the wife and proclaiming her used and unfit for clean penetration on any future occasion.”

The pop of the ink-bottle cork sounded for a second time and Sam swallowed down his fears as he listened to the sounds of Dean unlacing his trousers and pulling his cock out into the open. He wondered idly if the other man was aroused – if, perhaps, he was stimulated by the act of cutting him and watching him bleed as any other East Borderlander would be, or if the mere sight of his naked ‘wife’ excited him enough. 

Regardless, the ink was poured and Dean coated himself with the liquid, stroking the length a couple of times for good measure. Sam flinched when the other man suddenly angled his cock-head at his tight hole and thrust forward without further warning, pushing steadily until he was inside Sam’s body as far as he could go. Sam took deep breaths as he tried to adjust to the intrusion and wait for the sting of it to alleviate. He hated to think what the pain could have been like had he not been somewhat prepared – he had left his wooden plug in place during sleep the night before, and had only removed it at the last moment before dressing that morning for the ceremony, so his ass would not have been completely back to its normal tightness, and traces of the oil should still have been present, so all-in-all he was glad for the small reprieve.

“Requirement: both husband and wife must visibly release fluids onto the bed linens. Failure to do so will declare the responsible party unfit for the sexual duties required by the marriage, and the binding ritual contract will be rendered invalid.”

Dean took Sam’s hips in hand and lifted, raising him to a more natural position and subsequently exposing Sam’s limp cock to their hidden audience. He knew – according to the requirement – that he was going to have to find release soon and hoped that Dean would think to touch him at some point, for with the ongoing scalding pain in his back, and now the humiliation of being fucked in front of so many people, getting hard was truly the last thing on his mind. Thankfully, Dean had no desire to draw things out and presently began driving back-and-forth within Sam’s ass, his hips pistoning rhythmically with a well-practiced ease. 

Their skin slapped together sharply each time Dean plunged forward, and as the friction built, Sam inwardly cursed the ink that the other man had covered his cock with, the same sensations that had assaulted his back now beginning their attack on the rest of his body from the inside out.

While the prickling burn escalated through his backside up into his gut, it was only offhandedly that he noticed Dean had already taken his dick in hand and was jerking the length in time with his own thrusts. His body responded mechanically, his cock thickening and urging him towards his peak as Dean continued to stroke, but at no point could Sam find it in himself to focus on the pleasure of it, such was the pain that threatened to overtake him completely.

Before he could comprehend it, Sam felt the shudders of his orgasm momentarily race through him, and in looking down he watched the last few drops of his release fall uselessly to the bed sheets below. Seconds later Dean promptly withdrew his cock from Sam’s ass and groaned as he spilled into the space between his spread legs, drops of white mixed with black landing on the soiled linens. By that stage Sam’s hearing was fuzzy at best, but he could just barely make out the sounds of the other man’s heavy breathing, and it sparked a single moment of gratification to know that Dean had found some manner of pleasure in his body, even if Sam himself could not.

“Requirement: husband is to engage in a second round of penetration. He must discharge his fluids within the wife, thus symbolically marking her as the husband’s property. In this instance the wife is to be disregarded.”

Dean grunted his discontent at the requirement but gave no further insight on his emotions; merely wrapped his stained hand around his cock and began to pull at the shaft, the flesh now speckled with sticky-black. Sam, no longer able to hold himself up, let his shoulders drop flat onto the bed, inadvertently forcing his ass up higher into the air. He twisted his head slightly and looked on as Dean got himself hard again and wasted no time in realigning himself with Sam’s entrance and ramming himself forward.

Sam barely felt the intrusion this time around, his body having gone numb from the overwhelming pain and just allowing him to coast along the edge of consciousness. He was rocked further along the sheets with each of Dean’s accelerating thrusts and simply gave into each movement as it happened. Eventually he lost all strength in his neck too, and consequently found his head rolling about in reaction to Dean’s building rhythm. The reckless shifting brought back his dizziness from earlier, and it wasn’t long before black shadows began to slowly encroach on his already hazy vision, his senses gradually shut down and eventually his body collapsed altogether.

Seconds later Dean emptied himself into Sam’s ass with a weary sigh, but couldn’t bring himself to move from his position, staying just as he was, buried inside the other man. He could see that Sam wasn’t the least bit aroused and wasn’t sure whether or not to feel bad about it, but with another requirement about to be thrown at them, it wasn’t a thought he had time to dwell on.

“Requirement: wife is to be restrained and-”

“Wait.”

All occupants of the room, including Dean, turned to where the second elder stood, him being the cause of the interruption. It was almost unheard of for a ritual to be stopped so late in the sequence, but since the elders were in charge of the procedure, no complaint could be made against the man.

“The wife is unconscious already. It is a rule that he be awake for the following requirement.”

“Fetch the smelling salts,” another voice interjected, and immediately the two elders emerged from behind the curtain and came to the bedside, one of them holding a small bottle which he quickly uncapped. The bottle was wafted around Sam’s face several times but no change occurred.

“He’s not responding-”

“He’s struggling to breathe-”

“His heartbeat is weak.”

The two elders muttered between themselves a few more moments before a third and fourth figure joined them by the bed. Azazel knelt down by Sam’s body and smeared a finger each through the streaks of blood and ink on his back, sniffing and tasting both samples. Jondison stood expectantly by his side, awaiting the man’s decision.

“The wife’s blood is poisoned, as is the ink,” the sorcerer proclaimed, glancing suspiciously between the newly married couple, before looking back to his Lord. “They must both be taken into confinement immediately. The family members and attendants will have to be questioned separately. There are two poisons present from two different sources, so it’s possible it’s a murder-suicide pact, but perhaps more likely that an outside party is involved.”

Jondison nodded silently before waving several guards in to the room to escort the couple away – one with his hand firmly on Dean’s arm, the others carrying Sam’s unconscious body.

“Here, now!” Samwell suddenly spoke up from behind the curtain, “We cannot stop the ritual like this when there are still requirements-”

“Peace, child,” one of the elders cut in harshly, the second still standing at his side, “We have already discussed the matter and ruled that an adequate sum of requirements has been met on this occasion. Thus we find no reason not to allow the ritual to be considered complete and all contracts to go forward as planned. Any uncompleted requirements that you are dissatisfied with, you will have to come to terms with of your own volition or make other arrangements outside of our sanction.”

The grinding of Samwell’s teeth did not go unnoticed, though he nodded his acquiescence all the same.

¬“Very well,” Lord Winchester said, also noticeably displeased, “We will reconvene in the sitting room and discuss what is to be done. Everyone will submit to questioning without exception.”

Everyone was making to comply when Samwell spoke a second time. “I hope our requirement regarding the linens will still be upheld, My Lord?”

With the flick of a finger an attendant appeared and hurried to the bed while Lord Winchester merely turned on his heel and left. Within minutes Samwell was presented with a small parcel – the blood, ink and fluid-stained bed sheets, perfectly wrapped and tied together with yarn.

\---{{x}}---

“Hey, Sam… Sammy, wake up.”

Dean slapped at the other man’s cheek until he came awake with a start, coughing and spluttering all the while. They were being held in one of the dungeon rooms below the castle. It was damp and smelled of urine and hay – which littered the ground and provided moderate comfort when sat on – but there had been a couple of raggedy blankets stashed in the corner, so Dean had fashioned a rough pallet against the cell wall before rolling Sam onto it on his side so to save his back.

“Thank the Spirits, I thought you would never wake up,” Dean exhaled a relieved sigh and sat down more comfortably on the floor – thankfully still wearing his breeches, though Sam was stark naked.

“What- what hap-”

Sam curled over as a hacking cough enveloped him out of nowhere, black goo flying out of his mouth and onto the edge of the blankets. As Sam calmed both he and Dean stared at the inky muck, wondering how the stain had reached his saliva.

“That’s not good, is it?” Sam questioned, his voice weak and breathy.

“I’ve never heard of that ever happening before, so I guess not.”

With a moan of defeat, Sam moved to sit himself up, but suddenly realised that he still had the little red stone in his hand, and was for some reason, unable to release it.

“Dean, the stone-”

Dean caught the other man before he ¬¬did himself any damage trying to rip open his hand, and one by one he pried Sam’s fingers apart, finding the stone stuck to the skin. Carefully, slowly, he peeled Sam’s hand away from the charmed pebble, losing some skin along the way, but eventually the two were free of each other and Sam cradled the hand against his chest.

“It looks like a burn,” Dean commented. “I’ve not seen it do that before.”

Sam merely huffed in irritation. “Well, now you _must_ tell me what it does. I think I deserve to know considering I’m going to end up with a scar from it.”

“Yes, fair enough,” Dean agreed, albeit reluctantly, “It works in a number of ways depending on what is required of it, but in this case… Firstly it assisted in containing your reactions so you wouldn’t cry out or speak, and secondly it trapped your living spirit within your body.”

“I- you- what?!” Sam spat, struggling to comprehend what that meant, and sending himself into another fit of coughing. “You mean it… it tied my spirit down… which implies… you mean you were… trying to _prevent_ me from _dying_?”

“Sam, I-”

“Dean, that sort of magic is unnatural. And dangerous more than anything.”

“I’m sorry I never said anything about this, but I’ve been present at more bonding rituals than I’ve cared for, and when it comes to the requirements of East Borderlanders, death – accidental or otherwise – is always on the table. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I didn’t want to lose you.”

Sam considered this for a moment before eventually reaching a terrifying conclusion. “We didn’t finish the ritual, did we? I know I passed out, but… we wouldn’t be down here or as in good a shape if we’d completed it.”

Dean smirked. “You’re too observant for your own good, you know that?” 

It was obvious Dean was attempting to distract him from the problem at hand. “You have to tell me.”

“I don’t think-”

“I know you know something, Dean. Don’t hide this from me. I _have_ to know.”

“Look,” Dean began, rubbing his weary eyes with the heels of his hands, “You probably know that it’s not permitted for either of the bonded couple to see the requirement list, so I can’t know for sure, I can only guess. But… I once looked up the bonding records for my father and mother, since I thought my father would want me to do the same, and…”

“And?”

“The nobility always demand the most of their bondings. Probably because they can afford to sustain a person in their house who is weak or disabled or cannot work. I checked records of other noble bondings to be sure, and it seems quite common that some gift of humanity is taken from the wife, sometimes from the husband as well if both parties are of equally high rank.”

“A gift of humanity? Dare I ask what that means?”

Dean sighed in despair, clearly still reluctant to explain. “Eyes, ears, tongue, voice, hands, feet, genitals, beauty – they are all considered gifts.”

Sam nearly choked on his own astonishment. “Spirits above! That’s-”

“I know, Sam. Really I do. I’ve seen it done with my own eyes and it’s not something I’d ever want to see again.”

After an extended pause, Sam couldn’t hold back the question any longer. “Dean, what happened to her? To your mother? Did she die?”

“I wish I knew for sure. Father always told me she was dead, but if it happened here then there’s no account of it in the archives. I’ve checked.”

“And what do you think?”

“I know my father is a cruel and heartless man, even if it’s hard for a son to admit, but I’ve heard rumours over the years that my mother still lives, that he keeps her locked up somewhere… in a cage in his chambers or down here in the dungeon, I’ve no idea. But Spirits help me, I believe it.”

Sam knew that there were no words he could offer, no comfort or soft touch that would remedy Dean’s thoughts, so he merely stayed silent and waited for the other man to come to him.

And eventually he did, sliding down on the pallet beside him and pulling Sam firmly against him, taking care not to touch his back. 

“Castiel used to tell me that once upon a time all marriages and bondings were mutually pleasurable. There were still rituals that caused great pain, but the partners saw it as a way of demonstrating the strength of their love. Can you imagine?”

Wrapping himself securely around Dean’s body, Sam indulged in the warmth of the other man, wishing not for the first time that he were clothed. “Why has it changed?”

“I asked the same question. Castiel thought it was a combination of mankind becoming inherently more cruel, and the rise of arranged marriages over marriages that were chosen freely – mostly for political reasons, as you well know.”

Sam sighed, his breath blowing lightly over Dean’s chest. “I guess that makes sense. So basically all the ceremonial nonsense we go through is spells and charms to ensure that the pledge can’t be broken in any way, enforcing the family allegiance... Oh, and providing our parents with entertainment as they watch us suffer.”

“That’s about it,” Dean agreed, his voice rough. “Revolting isn’t it?”

“It’s worse than that. So much so that there’s not even a word foul enough to describe it.”

They fell into a loaded silence – unanswered questions and fears hanging precariously over them, though neither could bring themselves to vocalise anything. Instead they just laid there, unmoving but for the rise-and-fall of their chests, contemplating their hopeless position. Both knew there was little hope for a pleasant resolution of any kind.

A length of time had passed when Sam suddenly jerked in alarm, his gaze looking toward the dungeon entrance. “Dean, someone’s coming.”

At the whispered warning, Dean immediately disentangled from Sam, got to his feet and sat himself down beside the pallet, careful to not be touching the other man in any way. He could hear the footsteps by then – three pairs by his guess – and shortly after he watched as his father, Azazel and the guard who’d first locked them in all stepped into view. He heard the Lord curse under his breath and scold the guard for ‘foolishly putting them in the same pen’ before he moved right up to the iron bars of their cell and stare pointedly at Dean.

“Stand up, boy.”

Dean tensed at the sound of his father’s voice, but refused to let himself be swayed by it. Rather, he kept his eyes on Sam and figuratively dug his heels in.

“My bonded is ill and needs tending. Therefore I don’t intend to go anywhere unless it is to escort Salmaine to see a healer.”

“What’s the matter with you, boy? He’s a _wife_ , for Spirit’s sake. Either he fixes himself or he dies of his own pitiful weakness.”

“I’m not leaving hi-”

“No son of mine would sit here with-”

“Then I guess I’m no son of yours!”

“What… what did you say, you ungrateful little bitch?”

“I said-”

Dean hadn’t noticed when Sam’s hands had grabbed on to his arm, but he certainly noticed when they started to clamp down in fear, fingernails boring into his skin. The mantra ‘Please just go, Dean’ kept spilling over and over from Sam’s mouth, but even though he was trying to push Dean away, Dean knew that the only way he was going to get the younger man’s fingers out of the divots he’d created in his forearm was to pry each digit out, one at a time.

In turning back to his father, ready to throw back whatever words he had to in order to get the tyrant to leave already, he spotted Azazel in the background, his hands waving about as they always did when he was casting. Dean’s heart bounced up into his throat and in the instant before he threw himself in front of Sam’s body, he felt the younger man let go of his arm and cry out with a near inhuman-sounding shriek. He curled up protectively onto his side, his hands clutching at his lower torso as he rocked back and forth, garbled noises bubbling up from his throat.

“What the fuck did you do to him, you yellow-eyed _beast_?” Dean instinctively reached out to soothe his bonded one, but stopped himself just in time, his hands hovering over Sam’s back. He had no idea what kind of pain Sam was feeling but he decided it was probably for the best if he didn’t try to touch him, for fear he would only make things worse. 

He heard his father growl from behind him, as well as Azazel’s slimy tongue spout something that sounded like ‘Well, how interesting’, before there was the rattle of keys in a lock and the cell door was sprung open.

“Azazel, you’re dismissed.”

Dean’s head spun at his father’s words and he was quick enough to catch the looks of insult and disbelief that passed over the sorcerer’s face.

“But M’Lord, allow me to-”

“No. Get gone – I’ll be taking care of this myself. You can wait outside with the guard if you must.”

Something dark flashed in Azazel’s eyes, but he nodded and excused himself all the same, treading lightly as he headed back the way they’d come, glancing back over his shoulder no less than three times. Once Johndison was the only one left outside the cell, he took a single, very deliberate step through the iron bars and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why would you have me taken out,” Dean began before his father could get a word in, “When Salmaine is no less guilty than I, however guilty that may be.”

“The contracts have been signed, boy. Your wife is worth nothing now. You’ve been deemed free of any blame and will return to your chambers immediately until-”

“Oh? And who has cleared me of fault, then? _Azazel?_ ” Dean all but hissed the sorcerer’s name and at the resulting clench of his father’s teeth, something finally clicked into place. 

“He’s got you enchanted, hasn’t he?” said Dean, with rising conviction, “He’s got you wrapped around his little finger and you can’t even see-”

Johndison moved faster than he’d expected and Dean’s vision greyed in the aftermath of a secondary blow to the cheek. “How dare you, boy! He’s the most respected sorcerer in the kingdom, and if nothing else, he’s the one with whom I’m inclined to lay my trust about now. But you! You would rather sit here with that stained little whore!”

“You know nothing! And can’t you see how easily that demon witch had duped you? He’s the one that convinced you to bring me a Winchester bride! He’s the one that claimed that Salmaine was poisoned! And I suppose he’s the one questioning all the family members, too!”

Dean knew nothing but the feeling of hay-covered stone at his back, his ears ringing with the sound of glass wind chimes. He realised quickly that his limbs seemed to have adhered to the floor – no doubt with some manner of spell his father had shot at him while he was down – but he did manage to turn his head just enough that he could make out the shape of his father, bending over the pallet where Sam lay. He wanted to cry out, to call to Sam in warning, but his tongue felt like a lead weight and no sound would come out.

“Filthy child,” his father’s snarling voice filtered through the bells clanging in the back of his skull, “Let me see what the wizard did to you.”

There was the sound of a brief scuffle and the snap of hands meeting bare skin, and then Johndison’s initial snort swelled into a booming cackle that rebounded off the cold stone walls. 

“Fitting punishment for such a temptress… Now confess! Confess that you bewitched my son!”

Dean heard more jostling of the hay and blankets and tensed in anger when he heard Sam whimpering. His father grunted, muttering ‘Hold still, pet’ under his breath, and then there was a stretch of silence followed by yet another round of movement and skin being slapped.

“That’s better,” his father rumbled, but Dean was unable to discern what he said thereafter. The ringing in his ears in his ears grew into a throbbing ache, and the harder he tried to concentrate on his father’s rage or Sam’s frightened responses, the less he could make out clearly.

The minutes passed in a haze, sounds and images swirling together indistinctly, until the Lord’s face appeared from above and he was being lifted, heaved over his father’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He caught a glimpse of Sam as Johndison headed for the exit, the younger man looking beaten and unconscious, traces of black-tinged saliva dribbling from his mouth, but Dean could see no pools of blood anywhere and hoped to the Spirits that that meant Sam still lived on.

His father carried him all the way out of the dungeons, where he ordered the guard back inside to lock Sam’s cell, and then all the way up to his own chambers. He was dumped unceremoniously atop his own bed and his wrists tied to the headboard with one of his own belts. Johndison stomped his way out without a word, promptly locking the door with both a key and a spell, leaving Dean to his thoughts. 

A considerable amount of time passed before Dean calmed enough for his body to allow him any semblance of sleep.

\---{{x}}---

Sam didn’t come awake immediately. There was an awareness first, awareness of his cool, damp surroundings and the stink of old hay and stale urine. There were blankets underneath him, old woollen ones that had seen too many days, and he was naked atop them, the light breeze that skimmed over him leaving goose bumps in its wake.

 _The dungeon_ , his mind finally supplied, and once he’d overcome that particular hurdle all the memories came flooding back – the ritual, the poisoned ink, the pain, waking up in the jail cell with Dean at his side, and then more pain. The sorcerer. And Lord Winchester.

The mere thought of his name brought Sam to the verge of throwing up, but with great effort he swallowed the urge back down and forced his eyes open. A trickle of light shone down into the gloom from a slivered opening in the stone wall, letting him know that the night had now passed and morning had come, but the knowledge gave him little comfort – just another day for more cruelty at the hands of others.

Knowing there was little chance of getting himself upright, Sam went about clenching each of his limbs and extremities one by one, just to check they were still functioning. His arms and hands thankfully hadn’t taken too much damage, but in attempting to move his legs he felt something shift in his stomach and an upsurge of bright, burning pain assaulted his entire body, as though fire itself had taken him into its fist. Air got stuck in his throat at first, but eventually the hurt died down enough for him to breathe through it, and in glancing down he found his lower body to be covered in vivid shades of blue and purple, yet he couldn’t discern from whom it was given – whether Azazel’s spell had created it, or if it was from the more ‘hands on’ approach of the Lord.

 _Again, with the Lord_ , he seethed, rolling his head to the side to spit out a glue-like wad of blackened saliva. And that’s when Sam suddenly remembered what he’d unconsciously been trying to forget. A dark mood wrapped around him as the memories drifted by – the feeling of Lord Winchester’s cock forcing its way between his legs, the subsequent grunt of disgust as the older man had withdrawn covered in black slick, the unsuccessful attempts to clean himself off with Sam’s mouth and throat, and then the final humiliation when he’d resorted to wiping himself all over Sam’s face instead.

Running a finger over his cheek, Sam blinked vacantly when he found it covered with small flakes of inky black. Without warning his gut roiled, and he barely made it to his knees before he was vomiting over onto the hay-strewn floor, the last remnants of the previous night’s dinner spilling out in a thick black ooze. Sam coughed out as much as he could manage before wiping his mouth on the edge of the blankets and then collapsing back down onto his tender body.

He was thankful when he slipped easily into a light doze, but he woke some time later to the sound of footsteps on stone. He came alert quickly when he heard two voices strike up a conversation, soon realising that it was a couple of the jail guards, one of them having arrived to relieve the other of his duties. With great effort Sam managed to slide himself a short way along the wall, sitting himself by the iron bars and edging the side of his head out as far as it would go – from this position he could hear nearly every word that was said.

“…-in the town square?”

“You ‘eard right. ‘Cept it ain’t a beheadin’, it’s a burnin’.”

“What? A proper burnin’ at th’ stake? What’d th’ poor bastard do?”

“You ‘eard ‘bout th’ Lordling’s bonding cockup yesterday, right?”

“’Course. Who ‘asn’t? The little wifey near went ‘n died I ‘eard.”

“Well, they reckon they figured out whose t’ blame. Gonna burn ‘em after lunch t’day.”

“Well, better make sure I dun miss it then.”

“Dun think there’ll be a one who will. I mean, it’s th’ first burnin’ in years!”

“Who y’ reckon it is then? Always thought that sorcerer was a bit shifty…”

“I ‘eard that th’ Lord weren’t too keen on th’ wifey’s folks…”

“…It wouldn’ be th’ Lordling ‘imself, would it?

“Well, ‘ee _was_ down ‘ere for a bit. An’ the Lord’s ‘ad ‘im tied up in ‘is room all night, or so I ‘eard.”

“Now that’d be somethin’ t’ see-…”

Sam forced himself away from the wall with a panicked gasp, using his hands to shuffle back onto the pallet of blankets and curling his knees into his chest protectively. He knew realistically that there was no way to know for sure it was Dean they were going to execute, but the fact that it was even a possibility… And that the guard knew Dean had been tied up in his room? Sam knew better than to discount the idle gossip of servants and guards. His only conclusion was that he had to find means of escape sooner rather than later, and somehow find Dean and get the fuck out of the Borderlands. Of course, it was easier said than done.

He hadn’t noticed he was shaking, but it became apparent when the sound of approaching footsteps had Sam freezing up like a spooked animal. He didn’t have to look to know that the two guards were suddenly standing in front of his cell, watching. 

“Since we’re talkin’ ‘bout the wifey,” one of them drawled, clearly pleased with himself.

“Yep. An’ there ‘ee is,” said the other.

The lock on the cell door turned and the two men plodded inside, their boots loud on the stone floor. One of them knelt down at Sam’s back and forcefully pushed him on to all fours, grabbing roughly at the tattooed wounds on his skin.

“Well, ain’t that pretty?”

“Reckon I know somethin’ even more pretty.”

Sam winced as fingers dug into the skin of his nape and pushed his head to the ground, causing his backside to lift up further into the air. He squeezed his eyes shut as both the men dragged their grimy hands all over him, poking at his wounds and then laughing aloud each time his body reacted, trying pathetically to pull away from their hold. Sam knew in his mind what was coming – two burly guards and a young naked man? It was a no-brainer. But still in his mind he pleaded – to the spirits, or to Dean, he didn’t know – and the words still spun their web of desperation, _please not again, don’t let it happen again, save me, I don’t deserve this, what have I done wrong, don’t let them do this…_

“Get a look a’ this mangled li’l thing,” one of the guards chuckled, slapping playfully at Sam’s limp cock and balls.

“Musta messed ‘im up good in tha’ ritual.”

“Wha’ ‘bout this then?” The first man shoved a couple of fingers into the blackened muscle of his entrance, both men expressing their distaste when they came away coated in black muck.

“Dare you t’ do it first, then.”

“Nah, I ain’t stickin’ my dick in some gross black shit.”

“A ‘ole is still an ‘ole, m’friend, no matter what been there b‘fore you.”

Scrabbling uselessly with his hands, Sam blinked his eyes open when his fingers met with something round and smooth – the red stone Dean had given him for the bonding. Immediately he enfolded it in the palm of his hand, the burned skin there stinging in response, but it only made him hold onto it more tightly. 

Fingers were still prodding at his hole and one of the men spat on him, working it in while the other loosened his trousers. A moment later they shuffled around, one guard taking his place at Sam’s hips while the other moved to hold him down by the shoulders. Sam could feel the fleshy hardness of the man’s cock poking at the skin behind his balls, and he suddenly reared back, trying to kick the man away.

“Aagh, you little cunt! Fuckin’ hold ‘im down!”

A fist connected with the side of his face and Sam’s precarious balance on his elbows collapsed as his head swam from the blow, bringing him tumbling back to the ground.

“You got ‘im?”

“’Course!”

In no time at all the man had his dick right back where it had been, lined up at Sam’s hole and ready to go. He could sense the increasing pressure as the guard began to push forward, and Sam knew that if something was going to happen, it had to happen right in that moment. He wasn’t sure if he could deal with this all over again – Lord Winchester’s humiliation had already been more than he could bear.

“NO!” 

Sam screamed his last plea of desperation, and felt something burst forth from his chest, sharp like the slice of a blade. The guards behind him shouted their distress and the floor shook beneath them, sending them toppling down.

Gasping for breath, Sam let his body drop to the side with exhaustion, his limbs feeling like lead weights. Glancing around he could see the two guards lying on the ground unmoving, one of them bleeding a little from the mouth. He might have wondered if they were alive or dead but for the sight he’d longed to see – that the cell door was left open and unlocked. If he could just get to his feet he could steal a cloak from one of the guards and slip himself back into the castle. He could somehow find his way up to Dean and stop him from being executed – they could run from here and never look back.

They could do all of that if he could just get to his feet.

But he was just so tired.

His legs were so heavy.

His vision was going black…

\---{{x}}---

Dean took the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, descending into the dungeon at record speed. He frowned when there was no sign of the guard, and hurried himself along to Sam’s cell, stopping, agape, when he registered the scene in front of him. 

Immediately he dropped the items he’d been carrying in his arms and stepped into the unlocked cell, bending down beside each of the guards to check if they still breathed.

No – both dead.

Finally he came to his bonded, his skin pale and clammy, his limbs and face noticeably bruised, and he shook the younger man’s shoulders and called his name as loudly as he dared. Sam didn’t respond at first, making Dean’s heart beat frantically in his chest, but after a few minutes persistence Sam grunted and flinched away from his hands, eyes blinking slowly open.

“Please be Dean,” he croaked, eyes falling closed again.

“Yes, it’s Dean,” he confirmed, “It’s me, it’s really me. I promise.”

Sam smiled weakly. “Thank the Spirits. I thought they were going to execute you.”

“You heard about that?” he frowned, assessing the situation, “Did the guards tell you?”

“I overheard. They didn’t say it was you for sure, but I thought-”

“No, no, not me. But Sam, you need to look at me for a moment.” Dean waited until the other man complied, his eyes watery and unfocussed, “It’s your mother. She was implicated during questioning. She’s the one who’d been poisoning you, and she’s due to be burned any time now. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Sam licked his lips. “It’s okay… She wasn’t much of a mother to me anyway.”

Dean sighed, not knowing what to say. Sam filled the silence though, when he held out a hand, producing a familiar item.

“Dean, your stone… I think it… I don’t know.”

Shifting closer to the younger man’s side, Dean took his hands within his own and squeezed. “Sammy, you used up every speck of power in that stone during the bonding – that’s why it stuck to your hand, because you drew on that power so heavily. There’s no way that stone did anything here, it was all you.”

“B-but, I-”

“I think you need to tell me everything. Right from the beginning, from when my father and Azazel showed up last night.”

“I’m not sure I-”

“Please, Sam, just try.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam sighed, taking a deep breath as he attempted to focus his thoughts. “I had felt Azazel’s magic before I ever heard his footsteps, that’s how I knew they were coming last night. He wasn’t casting the whole time but his magic was flaring, like he was just waiting for something to aim at.”

“Not surprising,” Dean nodded, “He’s got a bit of an ego, likes to throw his magic around at every opportunity.”

“He aimed it at me at one point. It was nudging at my head like he was trying to find a way in. He didn’t so he backed away, so that’s why I didn’t expect it when he threw that spell at me. It happened so quick…”

“What did he do, Sammy?”

Sam looked away, as though he were weighing his options before he finally gave in. He rolled onto his back with a wince and let his legs splay open, eyes looking away from Dean when he heard the older man choke back a breath.

“Fuck,” was Dean’s only response, taking in the horrid sight of the scarred mess between Sam’s legs. Sliding closer he inspected the damaged flesh as best he could without touching it, leaning in further when he noticed something strange on the inside of Sam’s thighs.

“Wait, there’s runes here, Sam. Written in the scarring. I’ve never seen anything like it…”

“Can you tell what it says?”

“It’s a spell… Or a curse, rather. I think he was intending for the prison guards to _attack_ you. He probably even sent them himself. The curse infers that every time you’re _entered_ in some way, you’ll feel increasing pain and anguish, but you won’t die of it.”

“Are you sure of what it says about me not dying?”

“Fairly sure.”

“Because the spell…” Sam took a breath, “It should have been worse than it is. It hurt like nothing I ever imagined, but somehow I still managed to absorb some of it like I absorbed my father’s silence spell. I think… it would have killed me, if I weren’t what I am.”

“It’s possible your body warped it in some way, but… No, that’s not it.” Dean turned to the younger man with a renewed confidence in his eyes. “He was testing you. I’m almost positive he was the one that poisoned the ink at our bonding, and when that didn’t work he came down here to test you again, too see if he could kill you. Sam, surely he knows what you are by now.”

Sam shook his head in fear and disbelief. Could things be any worse than they already were? “He’s going to try to take me or something, isn’t he?”

“Quite likely. Now we have to try and get out of here… Have you got any power left?”

“No. I used it all.”

For the first time since he’d entered the dungeons, Dean grinned. “That’s what you threw at the guards, then? Azazel’s spell?”

Sam smiled in kind. “Well, yes, that. And a few other things.”

As quickly as it had appeared, Sam’s amusement dissipated, leaving him yet again with a haunted air hanging over him.

Dean helped the other man upright, mindful of his increasing catalogue of injuries. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t know… I mean, I think so. I just… I’ve never killed anyone before, you know? I learned how to, back at home, but I never…”

“And I ask again – are you alright?”

Sam paused this time, and thought about it. “Yes, actually… I think I am. In fact, I feel rather good about it. And it worries me a bit.”

“We’ll make a killer of you yet, Sam,” Dean joked, retrieving another rune-carved stone from his pocket and replacing it in the other man’s palm. He whispered a few words under his breath and Sam yelped when the spell finally hit him, looking to Dean with clear confusion.

“What did you-… Wait.” Sam flexed his hands and arms, then his knees and ankles. “The pain… it’s gone.”

“For now,” Dean acknowledged, “It’s only temporary, so we have to move while it holds out. When we get a chance to stop I’ll have a go at healing you properly. The scarring… I should be able to fix most of it, since it was caused by a spell and not by another’s hand. The blackness in your fluids though, I’m still not sure-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam interrupted hurriedly, “Let’s just get out of this hateful place.”

Not keen to argue the point, Dean pulled the other man to his feet and grabbed the bags he’d dropped just outside the cell. He helped Sam dress in clean clothes and gave him water and a small portion of dried fruit before they were finally on their way. Taking Sam’s hand he led them through the labyrinth of jail cells until he reached what appeared to be a dead end. But upon placing his palm in the centre of the wall and speaking a short thread of words, there sounded an incredible groan as the stone before them shifted and parted down the middle, opening into a dark passage that hadn’t seen signs of life for a great many years.

He charmed a small light to emit from his free hand and dragged Sam headlong into the stale-smelling tunnel, never looking back.

\---{{x}}---

Sam hummed with relief as Dean spelled away yet another of his bruises, leaving the left side of his body now completely normal in colour. The night before, after they had left the secret passageway behind and entered into the forest which led to the mountains, they had run and run until Sam’s legs had literally given out beneath him. There in the middle of the forest Dean had laid down the couple of blankets he had carried with him, and they had slept tangled together under the light of the waning moon.

Upon waking that morning Dean had dug through his cloth sack and extracted a potion and several rune-marked stones, helping Sam to move into a more comfortable position before he went about stripping back his clothes and beginning the arduous task of healing Sam’s many wounds. The tattoo on his back had been first, since the healing of such was a common and simple practice. Then next he had started on the mass of scarring below his waist, ‘attacking’ the mutilations as a whole. It was disconcerting that where mere days ago he had taken pleasure in having Dean’s hands on his cock and his fingers in his ass, now he wanted the other man’s touch as far from his genitals as possible. He felt ashamed and unclean, not only from the scarring and the ink-black which stained his fluids, but from the degradation which he’d experienced at the hands of the Lord. Sam had no clue whether Dean had witnessed the acts and not said anything, or if he’d been ‘out’ while the whole thing had transpired, but Sam was glad that the matter hadn’t come up, and he was keen to keep it that way. The fact that it had been Dean’s father made it a topic he could never think to broach with his newly bonded.

Regardless of his fears, Sam had bit down on his tongue and held still while Dean had continued to work, ignoring the discomfort of having his skin torn and stretched and pulled as it was knitted back together properly. In no time at all Dean had declared himself as complete as he could manage, and Sam had decided that his flesh looked more normal than he could ever have hoped for. The runes of the sorcerer’s spell were still slightly visible on his thighs, and there were still small scars scattered here and there, but it was a world away from what it had been, and Sam had taken Dean into his arms and not let go for a considerable amount of time. 

Eventually Dean had shaken him off with a modest smile and set about healing the bruises littering his back and sides, and Sam had nearly drifted off into an easy sleep such was the state of his contentment. That was, until he felt the faintest prickling against his skin, and he sat up so quickly he nearly clashed heads with the man at his side.

“Dean, there’s…. Over there!”

Dean followed the line of his arm and spotted the far off movement down the side of the hill they were currently situated on. He cursed when he recognised the green and gold checked patterning of their cloaks.

“My father’s guards. They’ve come after us. There’ll be at least one tracker among them, searching for traces of my magic.”

“What do we do?”

“Stay very quiet, for one thing. And there’s a barrier we could put up – it would render us invisible to them and disguise our presence for about ten paces each way, which should be enough.”

“Ready when you are.”

With a nod, Dean instigated the barrier spell, sensing Sam’s reinforcement kicking in at just the right moment, and sending the shield cascading down around them.

“Sammy, you’re getting really good at that. That’s at least twenty paces each way.”

“I got a little over-excited, I suppose.”

Sam gripped onto the older man’s waist and kept them still as they waited out the search party. The men came impossibly close, right to the edge of their barrier, but the spell did its job and directed their attention elsewhere, and by the time the sun had reached its peak in the sky, there was no sign of the guards in any direction.

“Now would be a good time to move,” Dean proposed, and Sam was up and ready within seconds, eager to be as far from the clutches of the East Borderlands as possible.

\---{{x}}---

Dean awoke to the feeling of Sam shifting behind him, the other man tossing and turning within their shared blankets before suddenly freezing, his body tense. Sluggishly Dean turned over to face him, blinking open bleary eyes to find Sam sitting upright, his expression full of fear. 

“Sammy,” Dean gasped, forcing himself to be awake and alert, “What’s the matter?”

It took Sam several tries to get the words out, his throat working but with no sound coming out. “S-someone’s coming.”

Startled, he looked around through the early morning haze to see if he could make out any movement at a distance, but found none. They’d been travelling on foot for several days by that stage, and had been traversing the lower mountain paths since the previous day. It had been hard going and they were in a relatively open area, but had taken cover overnight beneath a gathering of small trees. Sam had been able to give early notice both times they’d come close to his father’s search party, and Dean wasn’t about to start doubting his forewarnings at such a perilous time.

“Again? Is it those trackers coming around a third time? Or do you think it’s someone else? Can you tell what direction they’re coming from?”

Shaking his head, Sam winced as though a bright light were being shone in his eyes. “Definitely someone else… And can’t tell where – it’s like it’s all around… Every direction.”

“Sam, what’s going on?” Dean placed a concerned hand on his partner’s shoulder but was hastily shrugged off.

“Hurts,” Sam gasped, “It’s too much. Not tingles like usual… More like… pins and needles.”

“Can you get a shield up, do you think?”

“Yes. But do it now before it gets worse.”

Dean began the spell and let Sam’s ability dictate the edge of the barrier, boxing them in between the trees and the mountainside behind them. The younger man was a quick study, and in the past couple of days had managed to get better control of Dean’s barrier spell, working it into whatever size and shape he desired.

As they waited, Sam became increasingly weaker, and it was difficult for Dean to keep him quiet. Whatever was approaching them was obviously not his father’s guards, it was something or someone else entirely, and it was extremely powerful.

“Hush, Sammy,” Dean whispered, “Someone’s coming around that path – I can hear their boots, though they tread very carefully.”

And not a moment later a figure appeared from around the side of the mountain just as Dean had predicted. They were hidden beneath a tan-coloured cloak which concealed their face with a hood, but the figures height and broad shoulders revealed them to be a man. He took two steps in their general direction before stopping, his hood shifting as he looked around the small clearing.

“Your shield is far better than I expected,” the man called out, “I cannot even tell in what direction you stand.”

Sam clutched at Dean’s hand, but Dean shook his head in bewilderment. Surely it wasn’t possible…

“Take it down, Sam.”

“What?”

“Take the shield down. Now, if you please.”

With a groan, Sam let the barrier fall, absorbing the expended magic up through the ground. Dean called out to the figure from where he sat and waited for the unknown man to come to them. As he closed in, he halted a dozen paces away and dropped the hood down around his neck.

“Castiel,” Dean declared, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greeted in return, “I’ve been awaiting you both.”

“I’m sure,” he grimaced, glancing down to where Sam’s hand was still wrapped tightly around his own. “If you’re still holding onto your magic, you might want to drop it. It’s hurting my bonded to be near it.”

Without a word the other man let go of his magic, and Sam surged upward, gasping for breath.

“My apologies,” said Castiel, “I didn’t realise he was so seriously injured.”

“You… you can tell?”

“Somewhat. But the fact that he cannot stand my magic is troubling.”

“I tried to heal him, but I could only do so much.”

Castiel hummed in agreement and approached them to stand more closely. Kneeling down on one knee he placed his hand atop Sam’s forehead and murmured a string of unfamiliar words, before pulling back to look Dean in the eye.

“You’ve been through much. But I’ve put a stasis spell on Sam’s condition that will tide us over until we can treat him more effectively. But for now, we must go. Those guards of your father’s aren’t all that far away. They are intolerably persistent.”

“And where might we be going?” Sam questioned, suddenly coughing up a mouthful of black ooze which he spat onto the ground. 

“Far away from here,” Castiel assured them both, gesturing up towards the mountain peaks above them, “to the East of the mountains where you will learn to expand your abilities and set upon the right path. I have friends that have been waiting to meet you for some time now.”

Swiftly they set about gathering their things and following the Northerner along a path they had not noticed before. In coming to a wall of rock where rune-like markings had been etched into the surface, Castiel pushed open the section of mountain-face as easily as if it were a door, and led them into a passage that spanned the breadth of the mountain. 

They emerged from the other side much sooner than was humanly possible, and Castiel led them triumphantly toward a new existence – an existence where they would survive, and they would succeed, their bitter yesterdays driving them onward.

\---{{x}}---

**Author's Note:**

> Just a final note to say thanks for reading, and that it is my intention to write sequel for this, hence why it ends the way it does (ie. in an awkward kinda way, imo). I have a string of events already noted as what happens next - indeed I would have kept going with this had I enough time! But there you go...  
> Thanks for your time~


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